


Monochrome

by The_Blackstaff_and_NightMarE



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, F/M, Politics, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:41:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24342964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Blackstaff_and_NightMarE/pseuds/The_Blackstaff_and_NightMarE
Summary: Memories are dangerous things. You twist them and you turn them until you know every touch and corner, but you'll find an edge to cut you still. Twisted between his very own mind and a resurrected dark lord, Harry Potter is on the clock. Great men rise from desperate beginnings, and Harry is playing the most desperate game of them all. Set after 4th year.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	1. Prologue

Albus Dumbledore was angry.  
  
Scratch that, he was furious.  
  
But even moreso, he was _worried_.  
  
Hogwarts did not allow anyone to apparate in or out. The same held true for portkeys. Without express permission from the Headmaster, there was essentially no way to enter or exit the school properties. The excellent wards placed around the school by the Founders ensured that.  
  
Albus had done his best to make sure everything would work out exactly the way it should.  
  
Every Champion had been given a robe enchanted with various precautionary defenses, and each one had been informed that death was a possibility— that participation was _not_ to be taken lightly. After all, he wasn’t about to allow the lives of the children to be taken for a mere competition.  
  
The robes had a specific runic matrix sewn into them. One that could function as an intra-Hogwarts portkey, able to transport a student to the main stage should they give up or win.  
  
As such, there had been no reason to worry.  
  
Or so he told himself.  
  
In hindsight, he should have known that things never turned out the way they were supposed to, not when Harry Potter was involved. The boy, in something he began to call a ‘classically Harry fashion’, decided to _share_ his victory with the other child, Cedric Diggory.  
  
And that’s when it all went _wrong_.  
  
Both Harry and Cedric had vanished upon touching the Cup. That much was expected to happen— it was how portkeys worked, after all. But unfortunately, the two hadn’t appeared where they were supposed to. In front of the adoring crowd to receive their prize.  
  
Instead, the boys had simply...  
  
 _Vanished._  
  
“This was not supposed to happen,” Albus murmured, glaring at the magical screen floating in front of him as if this was all somehow its fault. But the truth was, he really should have known better.  
  
The signs were all there.  
  
Unusual disappearances. The darkening of the dark mark. Harry’s strange dreams.  
  
He should have _known_. He should have _predicted_. He should have seen it coming, that Tom could not resist trying to interfere with an event like this.  
  
And now, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the young man whom he had sworn to protect…  
  
Was gone.  
  
The pit in his stomach only grew deeper.  
  
“Is everything alright, Dumbledore?”  
  
Albus nodded curtly towards the Minister, before rising up from his seat and excusing himself. He immediately apparated out, only to reappear at the site of the anomaly mere moments later.  
  
 _This was where it happened._  
  
He wasn’t so naive as to think that his portkeys had somehow suddenly malfunctioned.  
  
No, this was a deliberate attempt to kidnap Harry.  
  
And it was a resounding success.  
  
“What are you up to this time, Tom?”  
  
Flicking out his wand, he began to incant every single sensing and tracking spell he knew— locators, scrying spell, the works —onto the pedestal in front of him, where the Triwizard Cup once sat. Unfortunately, nothing seemed to work. And with every passing second, Albus Dumbledore came closer and closer to experiencing an emotion he had thought long behind him.  
  
Desperation.  
  
Ever since Harry Potter had entered the magical world, Dumbledore had been caught off-guard by Lord Voldemort. And now, his dear student was paying the price for his hubris and shortcomings.  
  
The young Potter was certainly much like Albus had imagined. Whatever his limitations may have been when it came to magical talent, the boy more than compensated for them through sheer courage and strength of character. No matter the situation, he had always chosen what was right, over what was easy. A far better man than he himself had been at that age.  
  
It only made Albus blame himself more.  
  
With the growing list of skirmishes between the Child of Prophecy and the many shades of Lord Voldemort, a future showdown was all but inevitable. And he knew Tom was equally aware of this.  
  
That it would happen _this_ soon, was something that Albus had completely failed to predict.  
  
No… that wasn’t completely right.  
  
Much to his shame, Albus knew that he _did_ see it coming. Right from the altercation back in Harry’s first year, up to Sybil Trelawney’s recent prophecies. The signs of an imminent storm had all but been shoved in front of his face.  
  
And he had chosen to remain blind to it all.  
  
Ignorance was bliss, he told himself. To know that you must die to kill another— it was a burden he could not bring himself to place upon the boy. The bony shoulders of an eleven-year-old child, after all, were not ready to bear the brunt of Fate.  
  
And so, he’d chosen to procrastinate.  
  
 _This is Berlin all over again._  
  
His inability to make a stand decades ago had cost over ten thousand lives in the Great War. And now, his desire to see Harry Potter living the life of an innocent, _ignorant_ child had inadvertently put the boy’s life in mortal peril.  
  
And now, he was gone.  
  
Lost.  
  
Out of his reach.  
  
And anything he did at this point would be too little, too late.  
  
…Or would it?  
  
As if on cue, his mind supplied him with _all_ the information he had ever collected about Lord Voldemort. Knowing one’s enemy was a vital part of fighting a war, and Albus Dumbledore had been waging this one for years.  
  
He had meticulously delved into Tom’s history— more so than any other wizard alive —and yet, for the love of all that was pure in the world, he could not recall a single location that had a graveyard in it. But there _had_ to be something he was missing. After all, most of Harry’s recent nightmares centered around such a location.  
  
“Did you find the boy, Dumbledore?” an almost-drawl interrupted his musings.  
  
“Severus,” Albus turned around. “I had expected Alastor.”  
  
The potions master sneered. “Busy jumping at shadows, no doubt.”  
  
Albus sighed, ignoring the man's caustic jabs with a practiced ease.  
  
“I assume the Potter boy has been taken by the Dark Lord. The only question that remains is _how.”_  
  
“The Triwizard Cup was turned into a portkey,” Albus answered. “One that links to an untraceable destination. Someone managed to alter its destination before it had been placed here.”  
  
“And who is capable of something like that?”  
  
Albus paused, before ultimately shaking his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know. Even if they were indeed subjected to a portkey, they should still be within school boundaries. None of Hogwarts’s proximity wards have been triggered… yet.”  
  
Severus looked like he was about to ask something, but swallowed his words.  
  
“Has your mark been acting out?”  
  
The dour man grimaced, slowly pulling back his sleeve to reveal the fully visible Dark Mark underneath.  
  
Albus sighed.  
  
“I did warn you about this,” Severus carried on. “Allowing Karkaroff into Hogwarts was a mistake.”  
  
“I doubt Karkaroff has anything to do with this,” Albus answered softly. “The runes for the portkeys were keyed in by me, and the robes were personally checked for signs of tampering by all the four judges. Minerva herself placed the cup and—”  
  
He _stilled._ Had something happened to her? Had she done something—  
  
“Albus?” Severus asked warily.  
  
“It’s… It’s nothing,” Albus roused himself. There would be time to investigate later. His first priority was finding the boy, and Time was not their ally. “We must find Harry. Quickly.”  
  
“And how are you going to do that? Assuming the Potter boy is still alive.”  
  
“I have faith in Harry,” Albus replied resolutely, muttering one final incantation. “Ah, so it’s like that.”  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“Examining the site. I must admit, whoever created the portkey is a genius. The base is runic, powered by the holder’s own magic. The destination, on the other hand, is _cloaked_. Only a specific signature is allowed to enter.”  
  
“And you can’t trace runic magic,” Severus finished, his face pinched with frustration.  
  
Albus would have chuckled if the situation wasn’t so dire. For someone who claimed to hate Harry Potter with a passion, Severus spent far too much time _worrying_ about the boy. Not that he’d ever reveal his observations to the man’s face.  
  
“Conjure me something solid, please.”  
  
The resident potions master took the request in stride. Without hesitation, he conjured an empty potion bottle and placed it in the center of the pedestal.  
  
“What are you going to do?”  
  
Albus smiled. “This.”  
  
And he began his work. Despite the situation being much more complicated than anything he had ever worked on, the Elder Wand’s ability to beat the odds could turn even the most bizarre combinations into sensible, well-calculated matrices.  
  
 _It’s just like Nicholas. Helping me from beyond the grave._  
  
His old mentor had taught him this particular skill. Of course, Albus’s own level of finesse was nowhere comparable to the ancient alchemist— a master of the craft. But for tracking Harry, it would be enough.  
  
Pushing aside the nostalgic feelings that emerged in his heart, he focused on the multiple beads of color that popped up around him, dragging them into all sorts of intricate combinations as they began to form a messy, non-linear path.  
  
“How— how are you doing that?” Severus asked, in awe of the magical sight in front of him.  
  
Albus suppressed a chuckle. “If you must know, Severus, nothing is truly untraceable. Every bit of magic, even the most subtle acts, disturbs the world. And if you know how, you can trace it back to its source.”  
  
With the grace of a professional artist at work, he effortlessly wove patterns into the air with his wand, the beads following along and almost dancing to his wandwork. After several tense moments of gradual reconstruction, he was finally able to weave the ambient magic into a replication of the original portkey.  
  
And then he cast the enchantment upon the bottle.  
  
“Severus, I’m going to go after Harry. Make sure nobody leaves Hogwarts. Also… take a moment to check up on Minerva, if you can.”  
  
He received a curt nod in response.  
  
Severus wasn’t one for pleasantries, but he was ruthlessly efficient. With faith in his potions master, Albus put aside his worries and activated the portkey.  
  
A moment later, and he too vanished.  
  


**~~X~~**

  
_What is this place?_  
  
Albus looked around. The portkey had displaced him from Hogwarts to the same location that the original portkey was linked to. The place where it was supposed to have taken Harry.  
  
He had expected, nay, _prepared_ to arrive with a group of Death Eaters firing lethal curses at him.  
  
He had expected to face some form of Voldemort in combat.  
  
He had expected to be forced into an unfavorable fight to save young Harry.  
  
Instead, Albus found himself… well, here.  
  
This place… it was still within Hogwarts’s wards. He could still sense its outermost barriers several hundred feet ahead of… wherever this place was.  
  
It was almost as if this place did not even _exist_.  
  
Like an elaborate illusion.  
  
He could sense his school’s wards, and yet they had no hold here. That meant all forms of apparition and portkeys would work from here without any problems.  
  
 _This,_ Albus reasoned, _must be how they got Harry and Cedric out._  
  
It was painfully clear.  
  
Whoever had enchanted the portkey must have been brilliant enough to allow two successive displacements without a break in between. The first portkey was to get the boy to this place, only for the action to trigger a second portkey. A second displacement that transferred him somewhere _else_ , acting before the first ceased to function.  
  
 _One wave riding upon another._  
  
“What a brilliant mind,” he murmured to himself. “A shame someone so prodigious fell into the darkness.”  
  
The question that remained was how Tom might have known about such a place within Hogwarts, when he himself did not. The only location he could think of that fit the bill was the illusive Chamber of Secrets. Albus had tried to go inside after Harry’s encounter with the shade of Tom Riddle from the Diary, but powerful spells had barred him from entering.  
  
He glanced at the room around him. Everything was blurry, almost like looking through a mist-covered window. He could make out a rocky interior, and considering the wetness beneath his feet, he was standing in the middle of a running stream. The thought that such a place still existed within Hogwarts without his knowledge was humbling, to say that least.  
  
It merited a deeper investigation, but that was for a later time. Right now, there were far more crucial matters at hand. The traces of the portkey’s second activation were already beginning to fade.  
  
Without further delay, Albus raised his wand, summoning more colorful beads of magic around him.  
  
And began to weave once more.  
  


**~~X~~**

  
_I have been here before._  
  
Albus Dumbledore stared at the expansive graveyard in front of him, seemingly stretching out for miles. Rows of tombstones surrounded him in a veritable sea of the dead. The writings on the dilapidated grave markers looked faded, indicating age— or perhaps there was no one left to care for them?  
  
Still… something seemed familiar.  
  
 _What is this place?_  
  
That was when he noticed the small signboard a few feet away, hanging limply from a wrought iron gate.  
  
  


**Little Hangleton Cemetery**

  
  
As Albus read those words, something around him began to _change_. It was almost like a veil being lifted, leaving everything naked for the observer to witness. The misty presence faded, and the writings on the tombstones began to appear once more.  
  
In the distance, he could see the black outline of a church due west, whereas a solitary house with a tapered roof was visible on top of a hill far south of him.  
  
And suddenly, as everything came to focus at once, Albus _remembered_.  
  
This was the graveyard of Little Hangleton, the original residence of the Gaunts. The place where it had all started. Merope Gaunt, Marvolo Gaunt, Tom _Riddle_ … all of the information that he had meticulously collected erupted at once, threatening to overwhelm his mind with all sorts of connections.  
  
He was baffled as to how and why this information had vanished from his mind. But knowing Tom, he had something to do with it. Or… something far more sinister was at play.  
  
Not taking any chances, Albus lifted his wand above his head.  
  
“Solus Maxima.”  
  
A wave of bright light burst forth from the tip of his wand, shooting into the air above him and coalescing into a miniature sun. High in the sky, it ebbed bright white light, inundating the entire graveyard with its presence. With the dreary place now fully illuminated, Albus held his wand like a sword, ready to combat any possible threats—  
  
And froze, stupefied by the scene that met him.  
  
The entire area in front of him was rendered gray.  
  
Literally.  
  
Like the black-and-white filter from an old muggle camera.  
  
The grass, the shrubs, even the very earth itself, had lost their color. The air tasted lifeless and stale. The powerful sphere of light he had just cast seemed to slowly drain away. Magic itself seemed to perish in the area.  
  
And in the center of it all, lay the body of one Harry James Potter.  
  
“Harry!” Albus breathed, worry and relief warring on his wizened features as he strode ahead, ruthlessly suppressing his instincts at the strangeness of the situation. His mind was in turmoil, age-old instincts from the war with Grindelwald returning. But he paid them no mind, instead sprinting ahead towards the boy—  
  
Pain crawled up his spine, and Albus _screamed_.  
  
The Elder Wand acted immediately, forming a dome of protective magic around him and pushing its wielder back as _something_ surged in like a hungry shark, wanting to swallow the sole lifeform within its grasp—  
  
“FINITE INCANTATEM!” Albus yelled, sending out an immensely powerful wave of magic from his wand. The Deathstick hummed in response, almost as if it _craved_ the feel of it all, before sending the spell radially outwards.  
  
And suddenly, everything stopped.  
  
 _This… This is..._  
  
Albus was on one knee, panting from severe exhaustion. It pained him to even formulate thoughts. Whatever this magic had been, stopping it had drained him.  
  
Completely.  
  
He wondered if he had it within himself to cast even a single spell without falling unconscious.  
  
Never in his entire life had he felt so weak, so helpless.  
  
Until now.  
  
He glanced at the fallen form of Harry Potter.  
  
 _I have work left to do. Now is no time to rest._  
  
Pushing himself up, Albus slowly walked forward, trudging all the way to the fallen body. Immediately, he collapsed onto the ground, kneeling beside the boy as he held his wrist.  
  
…  
  
 _He’s alive!_  
  
It was faint, but Harry still had a pulse. But that was better than he could have hoped for.  
  
His immediate crisis averted, Albus finally noticed everything around him. Fallen around the boy, several feet away, were bodies. Human bodies. Twelve people, clad in Death Eater regalia— complete with their trademark skull-face masks.  
  
All twelve of them lay on the ground, unmoving.  
  
All twelve of them were _rotting._  
  
Their bodies were decomposing husks. Their robes were frayed and tattered, vulnerable to even the slightest breeze. Their masks were broken, loose fragments scattered across the ground.  
  
But there was one more body. A thirteenth one that looked oddly familiar. The severed arm, not so much— at this point, it may as well have been a rotting tree stump.  
  
The face, however, was remarkably rodent-like.  
  
 _Peter Pettigrew._  
  
Albus withheld a sigh. He knew, in his heart of hearts, that the man had been responsible for the entire debacle with the Potters. That the people around him had _murdered_ innocent lives. And yet, he couldn’t help but feel sad at the loss of lives around him.  
  
 _What could have possibly caused this?_  
  
A fourteenth body grabbed his attention. Albus, his body shaking in exertion, stood up and walked towards the cadaver, only to step back in horror. The body was decaying, the elegant robes in tatters, but the face was still mostly recognizable.  
  
 _Cedric._  
  
Albus shut his eyes, but a single tear escaped its clutches.  
  
He had failed them.  
  
He had failed them all.  
  
He glanced once more at the fallen form of Harry Potter. Alive, yet unmoving.  
  
He’d need to get the boy back to Hogwarts. Along with the rest of them.  
  
 _It’s not safe here._  
  
With tumultuous effort, he channeled whatever energy he could muster into creating a second portkey, one that led back to Hogwarts. Sweeping all the fallen forms together into a strong Body-Bind Jinx, Albus held Harry’s unconscious form even tighter.  
  
The portkey began to glow.  
  
As he felt the familiar tug at his navel, Albus couldn’t help but take a final look back.  
  
At the cursed place he was leaving.  
  
At a scene that he was certain would continue to haunt his nights for years to come.  
  
It was a circle of gray, within which Death reigned supreme.  
  
An area in which nothing, not even color, was allowed to violate.  
  
A monochrome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> ~The BlackStaff and NightMarE~


	2. Act 1 - Disillusioned | Chapter 1 - The Boy-Who-Lived

_“Harry Potter,” came the whisper, soft as a feather. “You have been taught how to duel, have you not?"  
  
Harry stood in front of Voldemort, his sleeve torn and blood dripping down his arm. Circling around him like hounds were nineteen of the man’s sycophants, all dressed up in their Death Eater regalia. Further still stood Peter Pettigrew, lovingly caressing his new silver arm— a so-called gift, from the master who took away his original.  
  
It was disgusting.  
  
Meanwhile, all he had was his wand. His ever-faithful companion that had saved him on one too many occasions since coming into this magical world at the age of eleven. And yet, even with all those experiences under his belt, he felt woefully unprepared for what was undoubtedly about to be the fight of his life.  
  
Gritting his teeth, Harry mentally cycled through his repertoire of spells. None looked promising. Instinctively, he gripped his wand even tighter as he stared back at the man looking down upon him.  
  
If such a thing could, in fact, be called a man.  
  
He heard Voldemort chuckle in amusement, his crimson eyes burning through the murky darkness that pervaded the cemetery. He looked rather different from the wraith that Harry had encountered back in his first year.  
  
Now, Voldemort was a black-haired man with a handsome face. It reminded him of the specter, the memory he had fought back in the Chamber of Secrets two years prior. Only, he was now taller and more broad-shouldered, with slightly paler skin.  
  
An adult Tom Riddle. An adult Voldemort.  
  
Harry could literally feel the magic rolling off of the man in waves. Even the thought of facing such an opponent would send anyone fleeing.  
  
And yet, all he could feel was rage.  
  
Here stood the man who had killed his parents.  
  
Here stood the man who had destroyed his childhood.  
  
Here stood the man who had kidnapped him from the Tournament, killed Cedric...  
  
The ball of anger continued to grow unfettered.  
  
“I asked you a question.”  
  
Despite all attempts to pain him a monster in his mind, Voldemort’s voice came across as surprisingly polite. Pleasant, even. A strange dichotomy from everything he knew about the man.  
  
“Dumbledore’s protégé, slayer of Slytherin’s basilisk, vanquisher of the greatest Dark Lord in history… Surely you’re aware of how to duel?”  
  
“...Yes.” The words left his mouth, sounding strangely serpentine to his ears.  
  
“How wonderful!” Voldemort’s lips twisted into a cruel smile. “Why don’t you take a moment to get ready. Rest assured, none of them—” he gestured to the rest of the Death Eaters, “will interfere. I will give you your fair chance at… vanquishing me once more.”  
  
Harry carefully stood up. He knew what Voldemort was doing, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. If he was going to die tonight anyways, then he’d at least go out fighting.  
  
Taking a deep breath, he raised his wand and—  
  
“Now, now,” Voldemort lazily flicked his wand at him, freezing him in place. “First, we bow. Formalities must be observed, after all,” the man mocked. “Such a lack of manners— Dumbledore would be disappointed.”  
  
The Death Eaters were openly laughing now. Jeering at him, deriding him, taunting him.  
  
They were toying with him, as if he were their plaything. Their source of entertainment for the night.  
  
“Bow, Harry Potter. Bow to Death.”  
  
He wouldn’t.  
  
He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. He was not—  
  
“I said, **BOW!** ” Voldemort flicked his wand once more, and Harry screamed.  
  
A heavy, invisible hand pressed down on his shoulders, with a weight he could not hope to bear. He bit his lip, trying his best to resist, but it was a futile gesture— his spine bent unwillingly until his knees hit the grassy floor.  
  
In response, Voldemort inclined his head slightly towards him, a pale mockery of a bow.  
  
“That wasn’t very difficult, now was it?” he asked, a soft smile gracing his lips.  
  
Harry looked up, his glare unflinching, unyielding even in the face of his demise.  
  
It only made Voldemort smile wider as he raised his wand. “And now, we duel!”  
  
Harry barely had enough time to gather his bearings before he found himself flung across the graveyard. The gesture was crude, but the distance thrown was careful— measured, even. Just enough force to rough him up, but not enough to actually cause him any harm.  
  
“Harry Potter,” Voldemort breathed. “Is this truly all you amount to?”  
  
He flicked his wand, interrupting Harry as he tried to incant his first spell of the night and bodily tossing him like before.  
  
“There is no Dumbledore to save you,” he went on. “No mother to die for you. No friend to take your place.”  
  
Voldemort wasn’t even trying to kill him, and he knew it. This was… this was a show. Proof of the man’s dominance, proof that his defeat fourteen years ago was nothing more than a fluke.  
  
“You are alone now, Harry Potter. And you. Are. Nothing.”  
  
The anger that had been churning inside of him began to burn hotter and hotter. And somewhere in his mind, a memory began to surface. A completely ordinary memory.  
  
An observation.  
  
A spell.  
  
It was something that Alastor Moody had once demonstrated in front of his entire class. A spell buried deep within his memories, but one he had never seen cause to use, nor did he ever fathom wanting to.  
  
Until now.  
  
“Crucio!”  
  
Harry’s thoughts were immediately interrupted by pain.  
  
Pain beyond anything he had ever felt before.  
  
Pain beyond anything he could ever imagine.  
  
And in that moment, as his mind twisted in pain and his sanity frayed, the thought of that single spell overtook his mind once more. He couldn’t find it in himself to use anything but that spell.  
  
Powerful spells often had their own unique requirements— the Patronus had taught him that. This particular spell had its own as well. And now, as he kneeled upon the cemetery floor, he knew he’d be able to cast it.  
  
He would cast it.  
  
Voldemort raised his wand again. “Cruc—”  
  
Harry didn’t wait for the man to finish. He leveled his wand, pointing it forward as he called forth the ball that welled deep within him, ballooning to immense proportions as he fed it all the hate and wrath and fury that he could summon before yelling as loudly as he could—  
  
 **“AVADA KEDAVRA!”**_

* * *

Harry gripped his temples, trying to force the memory back into the deep recesses of his mind. He glanced towards the dusty shelves, almost expecting some strange sort of comfort from the sight of its inanimate tomes.  
  
Unsurprisingly, it didn’t help.  
  
He was currently sitting in the Headmaster’s office, waking up after what he was told was a five-day-long magical coma. The good news about this whole affair was that it was a Ministry summon, so Madam Pomfrey couldn’t do anything about it.  
  
The bad part?  
  
It was a Ministry summon, which meant he was going to be interrogated about that night. And given his previous experiences at being interrogated, Harry was not looking forward to it one bit. That was how he found himself sitting on a comfortable wooden chair, recounting the events to the three people in front of him.  
  
First was Albus Dumbledore, acting in his official capacity as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, seeing as the entire debacle happened during the Triwizard Tournament hosted by his school, and since Harry was a student directly under his care. Directly next to him sat a grey-haired square-jawed woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties. She had introduced herself earlier as Amelia Bones, Head of the DMLE, which roughly translated to magical police.  
  
The final— and most surprising —member of his interrogation was _Percy Weasley_. His best mate’s brother had somehow gotten himself promoted to the freshly created position of Junior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic himself, and was currently acting as a proxy for said Minister, who had been unable to attend the interrogation in person.  
  
“Let me see if I understand this,” Percy said. “You just admitted to casting an Unforgivable against another wizard, knowing full well that the action carries the penalty of a life sentence in Azkaban?”  
  
The fact that Percy was able to reconstruct his statements with his own unique brand of snobbishness, while still managing to dot down his statement in beautiful calligraphic script, was just _fascinating_.  
  
 _It’s almost like magic._  
  
And apparently, he had grown to be an even bigger dick than he’d been the year before. Maybe Fred and George were actually onto something when they charmed his original _Head Boy_ badge to read _Bighead Boy_ instead. If he turned his nose up any higher, he’d probably turn into Lucius Malfoy.  
  
The random thought brought an unbidden chuckle to his lips.  
  
“Potter!” Percy barked. “Answer the question. Did you knowingly, and with full intention, cast the killing curse?”  
  
Harry glanced at Dumbledore from the corner of his eye, who nodded back in support. He had been subjected to two drops of veritaserum, along with a mild calming draught to ensure that the interrogation went smoothly.  
  
“It doesn’t matter—”  
  
“That’s something the Ministry will decide, Potter,” Percy interrupted. “Not—” But he was forced into silence as Dumbledore raised a single finger.  
  
“Harry,” the genial headmaster began, though a stern undercurrent seeped into his tone. “Why would that not matter?”  
  
“Because nothing happened.” Harry looked up, another chuckle escaping his lips— this time, it was mirthless. Apparently, whatever was in the calming draught had also made him feel less inhibited. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember the last time he felt this liberated.  
  
“It was incredibly stupid of me to think I could do it on my first try. To answer your question, yes. I did intend to cast it. To kill him.”  
  
Even now, despite everything that had happened, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed about it failing.  
  
He shifted his gaze to Madam Bones. “But it wasn’t cast. There was no flash of green light. No magic. Nothing at all…” his voice trailed off, slight amounts of anger and self-deprecation seeping through the forced _calmness_. “And then he— Voldemort, I mean —laughed at me. At my weakness and stupidity.”  
  
Harry couldn’t help but feel angry all over again, which was surprising. Weren’t calming draughts supposed to neutralize his negative emotions, or make him more focused or something? Whoever prepared this particular draught must’ve been a less-than-stellar potioneer.  
  
 _Snape would probably give it a Dreadful._  
  
Madam Bones began to speak, interrupting his wandering thoughts.  
  
“As much as I understand the context of your… situation, usage of the killing curse is absolutely forbidden by the Ministry,” the greying woman declared in a steely, no-nonsense tone. “You would have been in serious trouble had you managed to cast it successfully, including but not limited to immediate expulsion from Hogwarts.”  
  
The statement only made his anger come back in droves.  
  
“He killed my parents! He killed Cedric!” Harry ground out. “That— that _monster_ destroyed my childhood, and has been trying to kill me every damn year. But trying to fight back and survive makes _me_ the bad guy?”  
  
He looked towards the Headmaster, expecting his support.  
  
He found none.  
  
“The issue is not with you fighting back, Mr. Potter,” Madam Bones retorted. “It is about you using the killing curse.”  
  
“Any spell can be used to kill,” he shot back.  
  
“But the killing curse, in particular, is different.” This time, it was Dumbledore who answered. “I suppose we have arrived at a misunderstanding that I believe to be vital to this conversation.”  
  
His words caught Harry’s attention.  
  
“You see, Harry, casting the killing curse is not an example of strength,” Dumbledore explained. “Anyone can cast it, provided they have a certain mindset. It is something that even I myself, for all my other achievements, am not capable of.” The man’s electric blue eyes stared at him meaningfully.  
  
Madam Bones cleared her throat loudly. “As much as I enjoy a discussion about the more… esoteric aspects of magic, let’s not stray away from the reason for our presence here.”  
  
Even Dumbledore looked a tad sheepish at that.  
  
“…”  
  
The woman pinned Harry with her stern gaze. “Allow me to confirm your testimony once more. _Someone_ managed to hoodwink the judges of the Triwizard Tournament,” she glanced suspiciously at Dumbledore for a moment, “and succeeded in creating a portkey out of its Cup. This portkey then took Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory past the Hogwarts wards, into a graveyard whose name you cannot remember. Is that correct?”  
  
Harry bobbed his head.  
  
“Upon arrival, you were taken by surprise by a man you believe to be Peter Pettigrew, a posthumous Order of Merlin recipient. One who has been presumed dead for the past _thirteen_ years.”  
  
The woman— _Madam Bones_ , he reminded himself —paused, before continuing.  
  
“He then proceeded to incapacitate you and performed some sort of ritual to resurrect _Voldemort_ ,” she continued without the slightest flinch, “a dark wizard who was also presumed dead. Ironically, by your own hand on Halloween 1981.”  
  
“I have no idea how I survived as a baby, but Voldemort _did not die_ ,” Harry began furiously. “I’ve already fought him multiple times. In my first year, he possessed Professor Quirre—”  
  
“Madam Bones,” Percy began pompously, “clearly Potter’s delusions have no limits. And it is worth pointing out, Professor Dumbledore is notorious for being biased towards Potter and his—”  
  
“Mr. Weasley,” the woman spat, turning towards him. “Last I checked, I was the Head of the DMLE and you are merely a scribe. Allow me to fulfill my duties, and take care of your own.”  
  
“Junior Undersecretary to the Office of Minister,” Percy corrected. Harry could feel his indignation at being called a _scribe_. “And Minister Fudge was adamant that I make sure—”  
  
“Minister Fudge is not here,” Bones challenged. “And if he has anything to contribute to the matter, he can discuss it with me in person. Please limit yourself to your _scribe_ duties or I’ll have you removed from my presence at once.”  
  
That shut him up.  
  
“Now then,” Madam Bones turned her dry stare back towards Harry. “Let us continue where we left off.”  
  
“Voldemort… was laughing,” Harry grimaced. “He told me he was going to teach me the right way to perform the curse. He raised his wand to cast it—”  
  
“He used the killing curse?” Dumbledore probed.  
  
For some reason, Harry got this strange feeling that the old man was expecting… no, _wishing_ for an affirmation.  
  
He shook his head. “Well, I didn’t hear any words, but there was this flash of green light and I— and I felt— well, pain, and then— then I woke up in bed.”  
  
“I _beg your pardon_?” The Head of the DMLE looked wildly mistrustful at his account of events.  
  
“I don’t know,” Harry threw his hands up. “The next thing I remember is seeing Madam Pomfrey when I woke up at Hogwarts.”  
  
Madam Bones gave him a scrutinous stare. Not that he could blame her. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was under the effects of veritaserum, she’d have outright called him a liar.  
  
“Harry’s retelling fits with the scene I stumbled upon,” Dumbledore interjected. “When I reached the grounds, I found him lying on the ground. Unconscious.”  
  
“Surrounded by the bodies?” the woman probed.  
  
“What bodies?” Harry broke in, genuinely startled. The last thing he remembered was the Death Eaters laughing. Had something happened after that?  
  
The Headmaster looked doleful. “When I appeared at the site, I found you unconscious on the ground. You were surrounded by several bodies clad in Death Eater robes and masks.”  
  
Dumbledore paused.  
  
“All of them were dead.”  
  
“And rotting,” Madam Bones added, her eyes watching Harry’s expressions like a hawk. “Do you remember anything like that, Mr. Potter?”  
  
“No, nothing,” Harry replied, flabbergasted. Dead? How was that possible?  
  
Dumbledore took that as a cue to continue. “Twelve bodies, each of which had decayed significantly. My initial impression was that it was from some obscure dark curse.” His gaze strayed towards Harry fleetingly. “Then we found the thirteenth body. One of his hands was a stump—”  
  
“Peter Pettigrew,” he breathed. Even thinking about the rat filled him with rage.  
  
“Yes,” Madam Bones spoke up. “Interestingly, we have records of you, Mr. Weasley, and Miss Granger giving the Minister testimony on this very fact.” She deftly opened one of the documents in her hand. “In your third year, you asserted that Peter Pettigrew was actually alive, and that Sirius Black, the notorious right-hand man of Dark Lord Voldemort, was innocent.”  
  
“Yes, he—”  
  
“Back then, your testimony was disregarded and classified as delusional on account of… _trauma_ from seeing a werewolf?”  
  
Harry felt anger take hold of him again.  
  
“…Apparently,” he ground out.  
  
“Indeed,” the woman’s eyes were furrowed in irritation. “I will have _words_ with the people in charge of that investigation. Fortunately, the bodies have been examined by our forensics division, and new facts have come to light. The body is indubitably Peter Pettigrew, though the rotting suggests that it’s north of a decade old.”  
  
Harry balked at that. “Are you telling me that—”  
  
“I’m not _telling_ you anything _,_ Mr. Potter,” the woman countered frostily. “If it was just Pettigrew, one might argue that someone somehow managed to obtain and preserve his body. But the other bodies showed the same signs, and they belong to several… high-profile individuals of our society, all of whom have been confirmed to be alive as recent as the previous week. That alone suggests the rotting is magical in origin, not natural.”  
  
That made him feel elated. Though one question remained.  
  
 _What the hell killed them?_  
  
“We have also found the body of one Cedric Diggory, but the rotting has been so extensive that there is no forensic evidence of any sort of spell used on him.”  
  
“Peter Pettigrew killed him,” Harry revealed, feeling somewhat agitated.  
  
“According to your previous statement, the Dark Lord was responsible for his death,” the woman countered.  
  
“He was. Sort of. He told Pettigrew to _kill the spare_ ,” Harry spat. “As if his life meant nothing.”  
  
The Head of the DMLE stared at him, her gaze measuring, before quickly making a note in her file. “Significant as that may be, the crux of the matter is that the bodies show no sign of any magical curse or spell. Even the rotting, despite all evidence, has left no magical residue. Essentially, apart from your testimony, we have no other evidence that he was killed by a curse.”  
  
“A testimony given under the influence of veritaserum,” Dumbledore gently reminded her. “And that is not fully accurate, Amelia. When I entered the area, I did feel… something. It was incredibly magical and dangerous. It took a powerful Finite simply to stop myself from getting overwhelmed.”  
  
Both Harry and Madam Bones looked at the man, shocked. Albus Dumbledore’s name had always been associated with power. With victory. To hear _him_ say that he was nearly overwhelmed by the remnants of this mysterious magic— whatever it was —was shocking, to say the least.  
  
“Allow me to rephrase myself then,” Madam Bones muttered. “There was no magical residue on the bodies _themselves_ , though clearly something transpired in the area.”  
  
“I didn’t do anything,” Harry replied, his voice resigned.  
  
“I didn’t say you did,” she replied with a surprising amount of kindness. “But do you remember anything that could have caused this? Anything at all?”  
  
He shook his head.  
  
“And Professor Dumbledore here assures me that you have never displayed any unique magical abilities that could have caused this. In fact the only trait you have been confirmed to have is...” she paused for a moment, “the ability to speak Parseltongue. From what I understand, Parseltongue is a Gaunt trait.” She peered closely at him. “You are also known to be the only person to have entered the fabled Chamber of Secrets. Was…” The woman looked almost embarrassed. “Perhaps you learned some sort of ancient and terrible magic in there that could explain all this?”  
  
Harry stared at her, as if she’d suddenly grown two heads.  
  
“Ah…” the woman blushed. “Forgive me. The Daily Prophet ran an article on the Chamber of Secrets, and some of the Aurors who were investigating…”  
  
More staring.  
  
“Nevermind. It was obviously gossip, but I had to bring it up for… investigative purposes. Yes.” The woman cleared her throat. “Getting back to the point, I’d still prefer an official inquiry with the Wizarding Inheritances Office. Just to pre-emptively get rid of any rumors of you having secret ancestry or forbidden rituals at hand or—”  
  
“I didn’t do anything!” Harry repeated, this time yelling and attracting the attention of everyone in the room.  
  
“I’m not saying you did, Mr. Potter,” Madam Bones sharply answered. “Rules are rules, however, and you will have to bear with me. I was not present at the scene, _you_ were. And even you must admit that your story is outlandish without any evidence. Quite frankly, it makes me want to double-check the efficacy of the veritaserum we used. And even if the resurrection of the Dark Lord is true, why would he kill his own supporters?”  
  
He remained silent.  
  
“Seems like an act of insanity, don’t you think? And if the Dark Lord did commit such an act, why would he leave you be? A more believable theory is that you managed to perform something— accidentally or not —that caused those deaths.”  
  
Harry felt anger churning inside him at her words. It was like everyone was purposefully avoiding the point. Cedric was dead. Voldemort was _back_. And these people were nitpicking over the slightest details of the whole narrative than focusing on what was important.  
  
“One might say,” the woman continued obliviously, “that you even have a history of committing such incredible feats, from your history as the _Boy-Who-Lived_.”  
  
He clenched his fists at that. He really hated that title.  
  
“Imagine this,” the DMLE Head explained. “A one-year-old gets hit by the killing curse and doesn’t die. Not only that, but the dark wizard who cast the curse, someone powerful enough to threaten the entirety of Magical Britain, vanished. Presumably killed. And now, thirteen years later, you are hit by a killing curse, from the same man. And once again you don’t die, and once again everyone who meant you harm is dead. Do you sense a pattern?”  
  
“It seems the mystery of the _Boy-Who-Lived_ is back once more,” Dumbledore muttered. Rather exuberantly, much to his chagrin. “It is my belief that Lily Potter had something to do with it.”  
  
Harry gaped.  
  
 _Belief?_  
  
Since the end of his first year, the old man waxed lyrical about the power of love, and how it was his mother’s protection that flowed through his veins and protected him against Voldemort. And it was just that? A theory?  
  
“Well of course she had something to do with it,” Madam Bones snapped. “The idea that a one-year-old _baby_ performed something that could best a Dark Lord is absurd.”  
  
It was at that moment that Harry came to a particular conclusion.  
  
He _liked_ this woman.  
  
“I believe that whatever Lily did that night had more ramifications than merely destroying Voldemort,” Dumbledore explained, glancing at Harry. “Perhaps the same protection was triggered once more, causing all of those deaths?”  
  
“And yet Voldemort wasn’t in the list of dead bodies accounted for, Headmaster.”  
  
“With due reason. Harry has admitted that Voldemort took his blood to resurrect himself. Any ritual or protection conferred upon Harry through blood would recognize him too. That could be what allowed him to escape.”  
  
Madam Bones sank into her seat. “I suppose all this spins a wonderfully sound tale. However,” she pointed at the manila folder on the table, “I have with me a document from the Unspeakables who researched the event back in 1981. Apart from those cast by the Dark Lord, the only spells recorded were cast by James Potter. Also the nursery room where baby Potter was found had a total of three spells cast. A killing curse on Lily Potter, another killing curse on the baby—”  
  
She glanced at Harry— more particularly, at his scar —before continuing.  
  
“And the last spell was, in fact, a healing charm by Sirius Black. Also on the baby. There was no evidence of any spell or ritual— wandless or not —that could be held responsible for the explosion back then.”  
  
 _Just like now._ The thought was left unsaid, but the implication was clear to everybody in the room.  
  
“One can also argue that it might not have even been _Voldemort_. After all, the mantle of the Dark Lord is an appealing cloak to those who aspire to be like him. And what better way to establish authenticity than to face Harry Potter. Of course, veritaserum is limited to the subjective truth of the individual in question, as you well know, which means its effects can be altered by all kinds of memory magic.”  
  
“I wasn’t Confunded,” Harry broke in angrily.  
  
“I’m not saying you were, only that we must be open to all possibilities. But even assuming what you’ve remembered is the untainted truth, we are still left with nothing more than an obscure, unidentifiable magic and fourteen bodies. And forgive me, Mr. Potter, but your life story is splattered with cases of unidentifiable magic.”  
  
Madam Bones opened the folder that lay on the desk, and began to recite its contents. “Harry James Potter. First year, Quirinus Quirrell was turned to _ash_ upon contact with your skin, albeit in self-defense. No evidence of any magic being performed was able to be gathered, despite the clear magical nature of the phenomenon.”  
  
Harry stared at her warily. Was he going to be accused of killing Quirrell too?  
  
“Year two,” she continued, ignorant of his thoughts. “Killed a basilisk with a single stab using the sword of Godric Gryffindor.” Taking a moment to pause, she looked up at his expression.  
  
“Well yeah,” Harry answered, taking the silence as his cue to speak. “I stabbed it right through the roof of its mouth, into its brain.”  
  
“Mr. Potter,” Madam Bones sighed, “a basilisk is upwards of seventy feet long. The sword, for all its grandeur and rich history, is miniscule in comparison. Killing it with a single pinprick— _even_ through its mouth —is as absurd as me slaying you with a needle.”  
  
Harry stilled. He never thought about that.  
  
“Year three. At the tender age of thirteen, nearing fourteen, you were able to conjure a corporeal Patronus.”  
  
“Professor Lupin taught me how to do that,” Harry smiled. It was one of his prouder memories.  
  
“Did he now?” Madam Bones raised an eyebrow. “Did he also somehow teach you how to modify the spell to _kill_ the dementors?”  
  
“What?” This time, both Harry and the Headmaster leaned forward in shock.  
  
“A normal Patronus repels dementors. A powerful Patronus can repel even several dozen of them. Despite having just learned the spell, you were able to terrify an entire _colony_ of dementors at the end of your third year. A couple of weeks later, more than twenty Ministry-controlled dementors died. What’s interesting is the common factor that linked said dementors. They had _all_ come into contact with your Patronus.”  
  
“Amelia,” Dumbledore started, a note of warning in his voice.  
  
“I’m not accusing him of anything, Headmaster,” Madam Bones went on, her steely gaze fixed on Harry’s face. “But it is undeniable that there is a clear pattern here.”  
  
Harry gaped. “I— I didn’t—”  
  
“I would say there is more than just a simple pattern here.” Harry had nearly forgotten that Percy was here until the annoying prat started talking again. “He is a criminal, most certainly guilty of— of—”  
  
And the room suddenly became noticeably colder. At first, Harry didn’t realize it, but somewhere between Percy’s pompous declarations and his sudden stuttering, something changed. Almost instinctively, he glanced towards Dumbledore, who was _staring_ at Percy.  
  
A heavy aura had descended into the office. An atmosphere so powerful, so thick that he was sure he could even _touch_ it. Gone was the dotty old headmaster, the affable old man who liked to offer his visitors lemon drops. In his place, Harry saw someone else. Someone entirely different. Someone _powerful_. Someone that even Voldemort would hesitate to challenge to a battle.  
  
The _real_ Albus Dumbledore.  
  
“I think,” Dumbledore spoke, his tone deathly calm, “it would be best if Mr. Weasley vacated the room.”  
  
Harry wasn’t sure why or how, but that _stare_ — if it could be reduced to something like that —was judging Percy.  
  
Measuring him.  
  
Even though it wasn’t directed towards him, he could still feel its residual strength pressing down on him.  
  
It was monstrous.  
  
Percy was quivering as he rose up from his chair, his wide eyes never leaving the Headmaster’s gaze as he slowly inched towards the door.  
  
“The apple, it seems,” Dumbledore went on, the disappointment apparent in his tone, “has indeed fallen far from the tree.”  
  
“But— I am—” Percy bumbled, “Minister Fudge— he—”  
  
“I’m quite certain Cornelius can get his report from Amelia.”  
  
“But—” Percy swallowed, making a last-ditch attempt at gaining control as he was subconsciously shepherded out of the room. “The Minister will hear about this!”  
  
“I’m sure he will.”  
  
And the door slammed shut on Percy’s face.  
  
“What an unpleasant individual,” Dumbledore grimaced. The temperature slowly began to rise to normal levels again. “I admit, I didn’t see him growing this repugnant during his school days.”  
  
Madam Bones closed the folder in front of her with a _snap_ , a slightly relieved expression on her face. “Rest assured, I’ll keep him from spreading around any conjecture and gossip. I imagine Mr. Potter has enough on his plate as it is.”  
  
“Not to worry, Amelia.” The Headmaster’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Young Percy will find that he cannot share any of the information that he learned here.”  
  
Amelia Bones gave Dumbledore a long, measured stare. Finally, she ran a hand down her face, shaking her head. Clearly she wasn’t going to get into this discussion with him.  
  
Instead, she turned back to Harry.  
  
“Moving on with our discussion,” she continued, ignoring the old man’s chortles, “where were we? Ah, yes. You said that you saw Peter Pettigrew kill Cedric Diggory. But we found thirteen other bodies, and your own testimony states that you fell unconscious. Ergo, you don’t know what happened. It is entirely possible that whatever... magical backlash might have happened that night, killed Peter Pettigrew as well as the other… victims.”  
  
“And all of this,” Dumbledore interrupted her, “is purely conjecture. It has never been clear how or why Harry survived the Dark Lord’s attack in Halloween 1981, nor is it clear why he survived now. This entire accidental magical backlash hypothesis is essentially an armchair conspiracy theory.”  
  
“A theory that most people would likely agree on,” Amelia Bones shot back. “Incidents of unprecedented accidental magic are splattered throughout the pages of history. Admittedly nothing on this scale or effect, but it’s still within the realms of possibility. Besides…” her lips twitched upwards, “from everything I have here,” she patted the folder in front of her, “Mr. Potter has a history of surviving dangerous situations despite his grades painting him as mostly _Acceptable_ in class.”  
  
Harry couldn’t help it. He blushed.  
  
This was becoming surreal. How had a conversation about the resurrection of a Dark Lord who had terrorized Wizarding Britain, turned into one about his not-so-Acceptable _school grades_?  
  
For the second time that day, Harry found himself lacking the words to respond.  
  
“So, to get back to what I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” a momentary scowl flashed across her face, “a formal statement from the Inheritance Office would help clear any existing rumors about Mr. Potter using some sort of obscure magic or trait to kill his kidnappers. Trust me on this, Mr. Potter. The Daily Prophet has made up more with far less information.”  
  
“I’ll take care of that,” Dumbledore promised.  
  
Madam Bones sniffed. “With that in place, let’s move on to the next order of business. With Peter Pettigrew’s body found, it is clear that the entire Sirius Black case has holes in it. Black was accused of killing thirteen muggles as well as Pettigrew with a single blasting curse. If it was anyone but Sirius Black, that statement alone would have been preposterous.”  
  
“Sirius is innocent,” Harry defended. “He didn’t kill anyone.”  
  
“That’s for the Ministry to decide,” she shot back. “Sirius Black was a Hit-Wizard captain, one whose track record showed him to be both powerful and skilled enough to perform such a feat. Regardless of your personal beliefs, DMLE records show that Sirius Black _did,_ in fact, have a trial. Though…” she paused, pursing her lips. “Considering the nature of the situation, I’m not averse to the idea that some wrongdoing may have been committed back then.”  
  
“What? But Sirius said he didn’t get a—”  
  
“The Ministry,” Amelia Bones stressed, “has issued a public statement, offering Sirius Black a new trial in light of all the new evidence that has turned up. The statement has been broadcasted throughout Britain, asking Sirius Black to present himself to DMLE custody for a fair trial. I can only hope the message reaches him well.”  
  
 _Sirius will be overjoyed,_ Harry rejoiced mentally, before schooling his features at the predatory glint in the woman’s eyes. Who knew what she could read from his expressions?  
  
Madam Bones stood up. “I believe I’ve gotten all that I need from this interrogation.” She stared at Harry. “Your testimony has been noted and witnessed by two members of the governing body, excluding myself, and as such will be presented to the Wizengamot. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mr. Potter?”  
  
Harry swallowed. “I do.”  
  
“Good,” the DMLE Head curtly nodded. “Also, two Aurors will be arriving tomorrow to check your wand. Nothing to worry about, just standard procedure after an interrogation. Finally, considering the… delicacy of the situation, not to mention the implications of a resurrected Dark Lord Voldemort, rest assured that you will be summoned for a formal Wizengamot session sometime during your summer holidays.”  
  
“Harry is an underage student—” Dumbledore began.  
  
“Age is irrelevant in such cases, _Chief Warlock_. Fourteen people have died, and many of them are main and branch members of Ancient Houses. The Wizengamot will be out for blood, and someone will have to pay.” She glanced at Harry, or more specifically, at his fingers. “I suggest Mr. Potter here gets all the help he can acquire. He will need it.”  
  
She pushed herself off the chair and walked past them to the fireplace, before throwing a handful of Floo powder in it and turning the flame a sickly green.  
  
Right before she walked in, she craned her neck in Harry’s direction and addressed him once more. “I had the opportunity to serve under your grandfather when he was Head Auror, Mr. Potter. That man would have become Minister of Magic if not for his lack of political ambition. I hope you can live up to his legacy.”  
  


* * *

With everything that had happened at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, things had taken a sour turn at Hogwarts. There had been a lot of rumor-mongering about what had happened within the maze, along with several atrocious accusations made over the deaths once the bodies had been turned over to the Ministry for investigation. The ending ceremony had been odd and abrupt, with the Minister of Magic awarding the Triwizard Cup to Harry and Cedric Diggory both.

Of course, with Diggory dead and Harry unconsciously resting in the Hospital Wing, several speculations arose— each more outrageous than the last. All sorts of gossip floated around from Diggory’s death being a freak accident to it being a part of Harry Potter’s secret ambitions to take over Wizarding Britain.

The Ministry had done its best to quell the rumors, but with Rita Skeeter spearheading the misinformation campaign along with the rest of the confusion the tournament brought, Headmaster Dumbledore had called an abrupt end to the school year two weeks ahead of schedule.

That was how the entire student group departed in a mass exodus for their respective homes, just two days after the Third Task. That was also how Harry found himself wandering the empty Hogwarts corridors all by his lonesome, not a single student in sight.

It felt strangely cathartic.

The meeting with the DMLE Head, Madam Bones, went as well as it could. Despite the morbid nature of the discussion, Harry had actually gotten closer to understanding the events of his own parents’ deaths. He had never really discussed the subject of his parents with anyone, fearing they’d look down on him for not knowing about his own family. And despite being friends with his parents, Remus Lupin wasn’t exactly a fountain of information.

At least Sirius had the excuse of being locked away in Azkaban all these years. And despite that, the escaped convict had still done his best to actively stay in touch with him, though often using questionable and dangerous ways to do so. After being selected as Triwizard Champion, it had taken a lot of persuasion on his part to keep his godfather from returning to Britain for him.

He made a show of not approving.

But secretly, the gesture made him feel special.

Made him feel _loved_.

Everyone else had questioned his motives, from outright accusations to silent acceptance tainted with disbelief. It had been one of the worst years he’d ever faced at Hogwarts so far, and that was saying something, given his outrageous track record.

But Sirius had been different.

_Win the damn thing,_ he’d said. No questions. No demands. Only unquestioned support.

For the first time, Harry wondered if that was what family felt like. And now, Sirius would finally be getting the trial he deserved. If all went well, he’d be proven innocent, and Harry would get the chance to live with him. Just like Sirius had promised not so long ago.

_That is, if he still wants to,_ a cynical part of his mind pointed out.

Harry scowled. Sure, he was now involved with this whole… fiasco. But Sirius would surely support him, right? After all, Harry had believed the man despite the entire world saying otherwise. It wasn’t farfetched to believe he’d do the same for his godson.

_What if he doesn’t? Sirius will be free. He’ll have his own family. Will he still want me?_

At the end of the day, it always came back to that same point.

_Family._

A random memory chose that moment to resurface in his mind. A random event. A happenstance that he’d long thought he’d forgotten.

His first meeting with Draco Malfoy.

_“You’ll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”_

Was it possible that Malfoy had meant something else? That he, in his ignorance, had misunderstood?

Madam Bones had mentioned his grandfather before she left, alluding to how powerful and influential he had been. Perhaps that there was more to the Potter name than he thought, not that he knew all that much about his family anyway.

But now, he wanted to know. _Needed_ to, even.

Asking Dumbledore wasn’t an option. Despite his support, the man had a knack for responding to his questions with non-answers. And after the meeting with Madam Bones was over, he’d asked Dumbledore the same questions he asked every year, just before the school year came to a close.

Could he stay back?

And more importantly, why was Voldemort so obsessed with him?

Like all the previous years, all he’d gotten this time were non-answers, misdirections, and blatant half-truths. It had been four years since he had entered the magical world, and every year he managed to brush against Death, only to escape by an inch. Every year, it had something to do with Voldemort.

Every year, he’d confided in Dumbledore, hoping the Headmaster would tell him what was wrong, or shed some light on why it was happening to him.

Every year, he’d hoped that things would change.

And every year, he’d end up disappointed.

This year was no different in that regard. Only now, Voldemort was back, and he’d be hunting him more actively.

Next time, things would be much more difficult.

_Next time,_ Harry found himself thinking. _Next time, I’ll be ready._

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> ~The BlackStaff and NightMarE~


	3. Act 1 - Disillusioned | Chapter 2 - Dead Wood

_“This is a high-profile case, Kingsley. I’m trusting you’ll keep it under control.”_  
  
Kingsley Shacklebolt shook his head. He had been an auror for the last twenty years— one of the few who had their origins rooted in nobility but still decided to serve the Ministry in ways other than legislature. There was currently only one other of his type, and that was Amelia _‘The Tyrant’_ Bones.  
  
Despite her initial handling of the Harry Potter case on her own, the woman had delegated some of the more private portions to him, which was how Kingsley found himself here. Overseeing a wand inspection for the Boy-Who-Lived, while ensuring that John _‘Blabbermouth’_ Dawlish didn’t end up making a complete mess out of it.  
  
Frankly, he’d never understood how Dawlish had gotten selected as a senior auror. Ignoring his poor exam scores, even the current generation’s newbie cadets had a better record than he did, which said a lot since Dawlish had been on the force for well over ten years. Hell, if the rumors were to be believed, one of the newbies— Tonks or something —was being considered by the Secret Service Wing and the Hit-Wizard forces. Gawain Robards had always had an eye for talent, and this girl apparently had it in spades.  
  
Despite the man’s meteoric rise from Junior to Senior Auror in less than four years, Dawlish was just… plain. Not an integral asset to the auror office. No significant achievements or results in all his years of work. Nothing at all. In fact, the only thing special about John Dawlish was how easily he made Kingsley want to slap him.  
  
 _Even after all these years, my old man’s words stand true. Merit has no place in Wizarding Britain._  
  
And now, he would bear witness to yet _another_ injustice taking place in broad daylight.  
  
The incarceration of Harry James Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived.  
  
Despite Madam Bones having personally attended and reported about the boy’s hearing, the Minister had refused to let it go. Instead, he had become even more convinced that Harry, and more importantly Dumbledore, were responsible for the entire incident.  
  
The deaths of eight Wizengamot members, two of whom had been actual Lords, had sent the entire country into complete disarray. Funnily enough, the deaths of Cedric Diggory and Peter Pettigrew had been deprioritized to the point where he wasn’t sure whether the Minister would even investigate it without someone there to twist his arm.  
  
Blood was in the water, and the sharks were swimming around, ready to tear the boy apart.  
  
 _“Dawlish has been ordered by the Minister to perform a wand inspection on Harry Potter. The evidence is flimsy at best, but the Minister isn’t going to drop it. Rather, he’s convinced that no matter how inexplicable the magic is, it can still be linked to the boy and prove him guilty.”_  
  
The nature of spellcraft, no matter how elusive or mystical, had a common factor— it had to be done through the use of a wand. Unlike what most laymen believed, wandless magic was neither a symbol of strength nor an indication of skill. If anything, it was a demonstration of _flamboyance_. If a summoning charm consumed twenty units of magical power with a compatible wand, then its wandless version would require over two hundred units.  
  
The truth of the matter was that there was simply no reason whatsoever to engage in wandless magic. Not when the same could be performed with the aid of any compatible wand much more easily. And any magic performed with a wand left a signature. A trail that could be traced back to the caster.  
  
That was how the Minister hoped to get him.  
  
If the magical signature of the accused party’s wand matched with the magical signature of the victim, then that was proof enough to bring the victim into custody. Potter’s own affirmation about having tried to cast an Unforgivable only welcomed further suspicions about the boy’s mental and spiritual state.  
  
Between the Ministry’s negative opinion of the boy and his own reputation of being associated with inexplicable feats of magic, Kingsley had no doubt that the prosecutors at the Ministry would try to hang it all on him. His own status as the _Boy-Who-Loved_ , along with his notoriety as a Parselmouth— something the Dark Lord was infamous for —would only strengthen the case against him.  
  
 _And I’ll be the one leading him there._  
  
Sometimes, Kingsley hated his job.  
  
“You think Dumbledore will try to stop us?” Dawlish drawled from his left.  
  
Kingsley sighed. Of course, Dawlish would put it that way.  
  
The Headmaster had allowed an official interrogation of Harry Potter to move forward, despite having multiple ways to halt it. In fact, he expedited the process, allowing Amelia Bones herself to carry it out as soon as the boy woke up. And yet, the Minister was of the opinion that the old man was trying to subvert justice from being upheld. Worse still, the man believed that Dumbledore had tried to strong-arm Bones into going along with his sinister plans.  
  
Kingsley had chuckled when he first heard about it.  
  
While it was hard to call Madam Bones legitimately kind, she was an incredibly fair person. Boy-Who-Lived or not, the Head of the DMLE would live and die by the rule of the law. He doubted anyone, even Albus Dumbledore, could change that.  
  
“What’s got you giggling all of a sudden?” the blabbermouth asked him.  
  
Kingsley snorted. Just another reminder of how Dawlish didn’t even need to try to piss him off.  
  
“I’m not _giggling,_ Dawlish. Let’s cut the chatter and finish the task we’ve been assigned.”  
  
“There’s no real rush,” Dawlish waved him off. “Potter’s got nowhere to go. This time, justice will be served. Did you know the lad lost me fifty galleons in the Triwizard bet?”  
  
So _that_ was why he looked so excited to take up this case.  
  
Kingsley deliberately looked away. He wasn’t sure what exactly Dawlish had bet on, but knowing the guy, it was probably something he wouldn’t want to know anyway.  
  
The door in front of them opened with a soft creak, and Harry Potter and Minerva McGonagall stepped in.  
  
The old woman nodded at them curtly. “Mr. Potter is here without parental supervision. Therefore, I, as his Head of House, will bear witness to this event.”  
  
“Of course,” Dawlish muttered.  
  
Kingsley suppressed a chuckle. He was probably disappointed at not being able to deal with the kid on his own. That, and minor trepidation at standing in front of his old Head of House. Rumor had it that he was transfigured into a fluffy white kitten and given to the firsties to play with in his seventh year, or something like that.  
  
Personally, Kingsley was interested in meeting the boy. With all the rumors about the Dark Lord being back, he assumed Dumbledore would recall the Old Guard soon enough. Last time, he’d been conflicted between maintaining his Auror duties and joining what basically amounted to an illegal vigilante group.  
  
This time, though…  
  
“—to check Mr. Potter’s wand for any wrongdoing and report it to the Ministry.”  
  
 _Right. Back to the issue._  
  
“Most importantly, Professor McGonagall, has Mr. Potter used the wand since the night of the event?”  
  
The old professor shook her head. “Mr. Potter has been suffering the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse,” her lips curled distastefully. “He has been kept from performing any magic since, with the intention of allowing him to recover and ensuring that any further magic did not come in the way of proving his innocence via Priori Incantatem.”  
  
Kingsley had to admit, they were incredibly well-prepared for this, and any rebuttal Dawlish could give was answered before it was given voice. He could practically see the man deflating like a punctured balloon.  
  
Professor McGonagall slowly took out a wand box from her robe pockets and opened it, revealing a light brown wand sitting within.  
  
“His wand has been kept in isolation in the Hospital Wing, untouched since the night of the incident. It may not be taken into custody, and you are not permitted to retain it after this investigation. Are we clear?”  
  
 _Fair enough._  
  
Kingsley nodded, raising his arm to touch the wand, but Dawlish had already made a grab for it. Lifting it by the handle, the man performed an ostentatious _swish-and-flick_ , before giving him a funny look, as if he just remembered he wasn’t alone.  
  
“Mind if I do the honors?”  
  
“...Sure,” Kingsley sighed.  
  
The sanctimonious auror twirled Potter’s wand between his fingers, before taking his own wand and tapping its tip. Taking a deep, resolute breath, he began the wand inspection.  
  
“Priori Incantato!”  
  
…  
  
And nothing happened.  
  
 _Well, that’s a first._  
  
Kingsley raised his eyebrows, glancing between Dawlish’s reddening face and a wand that was cheerfully disobeying its master’s command.  
  
“Priori Incantato!”  
  
He was beginning to find it funny.  
  
“It’s—” Dawlish looked constipated as he tapped the wand harder and harder in frustration. “It’s not responding!”  
  
“What do you mean?” the Potter boy spoke up, worry marring his features. It was clear that the boy was just as surprised by this unexpected development as everyone else. That, or he was at least a fifth-level Occlumens, in which case Kingsley would require the aid of an official Legilimencer before any further action could be taken.  
  
A few drops of veritaserum wouldn’t hurt either.  
  
“Professor McGonagall, may I—?” the boy offered.  
  
“It’s against the law for the accused to be using the wand during inspection, lad,” Kingsley gently explained. He nearly felt guilty at the fear that spread across the boy’s countenance thanks to his words. More and more, he became convinced that Harry Potter was just a boy caught in the crosshairs of events beyond his control.  
  
“Damn it— this— this isn’t working at all, Kingsley,” Dawlish interrupted, shaking both his own wand and Potter’s.  
  
Nothing. Not even the flimsiest of sparks erupted out of the tip.  
  
It was almost as if the wand was—  
  
“Dead,” Dawlish finished his thought for him. “It’s completely unresponsive.”  
  
The man narrowed his eyes at McGonagall, before shifting his gaze to Potter and then back to her again. “What are you playing at? If I find that you’ve done anything to the wa—”  
  
“I think,” McGonagall interrupted him icily, “that everything will be settled if Mr. Potter is allowed to demonstrate a spell of your choosing, Mr. Dawlish.” Clearly, the woman was not fond of seeing anyone antagonize one of her students without due reason.  
  
Dawlish paused at that, before inclining his head. He motioned towards Kingsley. “Will you stand witness to this?”  
  
Kingsley nodded in acknowledgment.  
  
“Very well, Potter. You’re to use a basic illumination spell with your wand. Think you can cast something non-lethal?” he jabbed.  
  
The boy merely rolled his eyes at Dawlish’s overtly accusatory tone and accepted his wand. Kingsley noted how Potter held it in front of him— loose grip, angled tip, balanced at chest height.  
  
 _Interesting, a natural duelist’s stance. Not something I see every day._  
  
Aiming straight at Dawlish, Harry Potter flicked his wand forward. “Lumos.”  
  
…  
  
And once again, nothing happened.  
  
“What’s wrong, Potter?” McGonagall asked.  
  
The boy’s face was all scrunched up. “I dunno, Professor. I can push my magic into the wand, but nothing’s happening.” He waved the wand a few more times, cycling through a full list of second-year charms. None yielded any results.  
  
“So it’s dead,” Dawlish muttered.  
  
McGonagall gave him a _don’t-be-stupid_ look. “Mr. Dawlish, it is a wand. An outer layer of wood covering a piece of tissue from a magical beast or plant. It’s neither alive nor dead, it’s a _tool_. And tools either work or they don't.”  
  
“Well— then why aren’t the spells working?” Dawlish looked like he was going to snap. “Maybe some kind of dark magic was used to temporarily keep the wand from working properly?”  
  
“I don’t know why you’re asking me, Mr. Dawlish, seeing as I’m not a wandmaker. My sole purpose here was to stand in ceremony while Mr. Potter underwent a wand inspection.” McGonagall narrowed her eyes. “Clearly, the two of you are unprepared to carry one out properly. However, lucky for you both, I’m certain Mr. Potter here will be happy to submit his wand to Ministry custody until the reason for the wand’s behavior comes to light. I assume that would be all?”  
  
Kingsley suppressed a chuckle. That was old McGonagall alright. In one clean stroke, she not only effectively silenced that knob Dawlish, but also ensured her charge wouldn’t be taken into custody. At least, not until the wand could be made to work again.  
  
 _I can already see how this will end. The Minister wanted to take Potter in, but he’ll have to settle for his unresponsive wand._  
  
“Mr. Dawlish? Mr. Shacklebolt?” the professor asked once more.  
  
“Of course, Professor.” And this time, Kingsley’s smile was genuine. “That’ll do perfectly.”

* * *

Harry watched with a growing sense of dread as the two aurors took the narrow box— with his beloved wand inside it —and walked out of the room. He could feel the rhythmic palpitations of his heart as the sound of the two men marching away grew dimmer and dimmer. Really, why had he expected anything different? Every single bit of happiness had been systematically snatched away from him.  
  
This time, it was his wand. What was next, Hedwig? And then what? Maybe—  
  
“Potter?”  
  
McGonagall’s voice brought his thoughts to a screeching halt. Inwardly shaking, he turned to his right. “Ye— yes, Professor McGonagall?”  
  
“Are you alright?” she asked, her face softer than he’d ever seen before on the normally stern visage.  
  
“I’m… fine,” he tersely responded.  
  
She nodded. “I see. It’s _that_ bad then.”  
  
Harry felt his patience grow thin. Why wouldn’t this woman understand? What part of _‘I’m fine’_ suggested that the situation was anything but fine? Besides, what business did McGonagall have in this anyway? She’d been perfectly peachy when her precious Gryffindors had made his life a living hell earlier this year, after the Tournament began. All that talk about the House being family during the Sorting had been nothing but empty words.  
  
Then again, given his experience with his aunt and uncle, Gryffindor House might actually be an accurate representation of what _family_ was all about. And McGonagall, like Mrs. Stevenson back in primary school, had always chosen to look the other way.  
  
“Potter, I understand you must be feeling bad about this situation. But—”  
  
“I said I’m _fine_! _”_ Harry snapped, his frustration finally getting the better of him. “Why do you keep harping on about the same thing?”  
  
The old transfiguration mistress narrowed her eyes. “I can _see_ the gears move in your mind, Potter. I have been in this profession for over four decades now, and I know a transition when I see one.”  
  
“What do you mean?” he bit out.  
  
McGonagall raised her right hand and began counting fingers. “You had a near-death experience a week ago. You saw a close acquaintance die in front of your own eyes. You were in the hospital wing for most of the week suffering from an acute case of magical inundation. Moments after waking up, the Ministry, in its infinite wisdom, put you through a rigorous interrogation that may have opened old wounds. And now, you’ve found out that your wand is unresponsive and possibly— for lack of a better word — _dead_. Am I forgetting anything?”  
  
Harry gaped in silence at the woman.  
  
“As I said, this sort of emotional baggage can affect your psyche. A dangerous thing, considering one’s natural instinct is to block out all unpleasant emotions and feelings. The fact that you haven’t started attacking me or shown open hostility than harmlessly yelling is quite frankly surprising.”  
  
“I’m sorry to have disappointed you then, _Professor_ ,” Harry sneered, not willing to admit to how closely she hit home. “If that’s all, then may I be excused?”  
  
“Pot—” The woman paused, pinching the bridge of her nose as she exhaled. “Harry,” she began softly, a gentle smile on her face. “I’m truly sorry you’re going through all of this. I sincerely would like to help you, but I can only do so if you allow me.”  
  
“Help me?” Harry ground out. “Help me? Like you’ve done so far? Ignoring me while the entire school accused me of being a killer and vilified me as the heir of Slytherin two years ago? Or when I was treated like a leper this year? The fake Hogwarts champion. The _fraud_. Do go on, Professor. Tell me how you’d like to _help_ me.”  
  
The woman took a step back, her face melancholic. “I freely admit that my actions were erroneous, Potter. For all that I admonish Severus for seeing your father in you, I’m afraid I made the same mistake. While you’ve inherited his looks, it seems you are closer to your mother in mind.”  
  
That put him to a pause.  
  
“You— you knew my mother?” Harry asked, before realizing how stupid that question was. After all, the fact that McGonagall taught his father meant she also knew his mother.  
  
“I did, both as a student and a friend. In hindsight, it might have been a good idea to tell you about your parents. But with the way you, Mr. Weasley, and Miss Granger have been stuck at the hip since your first year, it was easy to substitute you with James and his merry little gang. I made the mistake of thinking you’d be fine by yourself. James wasn’t the type to confide in adults after all.”  
  
He remained silent.  
  
“I can also understand how it feels to lose one’s wand,” the professor went on sympathetically, a comforting hand on his left shoulder. “Have faith that we’ll get you a new wand tomorrow. I missed my chance at seeing you choose your first wand, but I won’t be repeating that with your second.”  
  
“But— I mean— will my old wand never work again?”  
  
McGonagall averted her gaze, shaking her head. “I’m— I’m not sure, Potter. As I admitted earlier, I’m no expert in wandlore. Most witches and wizards do end up losing or breaking their wands at least once during their life. This one,” she held her own wand in the palm of her hand, “is my third.”  
  
“Third?” Harry wheezed, wondering what on Earth led to the transfiguration mistress losing a wand, let alone two of them.  
  
“My first time was an accident,” she went on, as if reading his mind. “I was experimenting with an unstable piece of transfiguration in my seventh year, and it blew up in my face. I think I cried for a week before your grandmother— the prefect at the time —took pity on me and explained why it wasn’t a big deal.”  
  
“It’s not?”  
  
McGonagall shook her head.  
  
Well, that was a surprise. From his own _unique_ experience with Ollivander, Harry had come to think of his connection with his wand as something beyond special. The wand chose the wizard, or so the old wandmaker had told him. Along with how the phoenix that gave a feather for his wand had given exactly one other feather— for the one given to Tom Riddle.  
  
 _Just another eerie similarity between us._  
  
‘Strange likenesses’, as Riddle had put it back in the Chamber.  
  
“Professor,” Harry tried, his mind furiously parsing through his thoughts, “Ollivander told me that the phoenix that gave me a feather for my wand gave another feather. Just one other.”  
  
“And who claimed the other?”  
  
“Lord Voldemort.”  
  
McGonagall sucked in a breath. “That's… _interesting_ to know, I suppose. Then again, the entire school had a variety of rumors about how you could speak Parseltongue.”  
  
“Professor Dumbledore said it was because of Voldemort. I mean, I could because he could too,” Harry spoke up, before realizing he’d probably said a little too much.  
  
“That is a load of hippogriff dung,” she muttered, surprising him. “I’m no expert, but Parseltongue is infamous as a Gaunt family trait, which is passed on through blood. Not through some...” her eyes flickered to his forehead, “curse-scar.”  
  
“But I don’t have Gaunt lineage,” Harry retorted. “That Bones woman said so.”  
  
“None that we know of. Sometimes, traits do show up in muggle-born descendants of older lines. There’s always the chance that your mother might have been a descendant of the Gaunt line. I would recommend you perform a lineage test this summer. It may just answer some of your questions, Potter.”  
  
Just peachy. That was going to be _so_ easy to do. He’d just ask Vernon to take him to Gringotts to check if he had more family than he knew of.  
  
“...Sure thing, professor.”  
  
The transfiguration professor nodded her head, unaware of his thoughts. “The fact that you and Lord Voldemort share brother wands is definitely interesting, but now that your wand has… malfunctioned, I’m not sure how it will affect the… status quo. In any case, you are no longer the wide-eyed child you were back in your first year. You’ve grown up, Potter, in more ways than one. And there is no doubt in my mind that the changes in you might be reflected onto your new wand.”  
  
“But will it work as good as my old one?”  
  
McGonagall sighed. “I find myself repeating this, but I am not a wandmaker, Potter. There’s no way to be certain. Every core and wood, and subsequently every wand, has its own attributes. Its own strengths, its own weaknesses. As far as I remember, phoenix feathers tend to have a greater alignment to fire in general, and holly is the duelist’s choice for defensive casting. We will have to wait and see what your new wand is made of, and proceed from there.”  
  
Harry pursed his lips. It felt like there was so much information being thrown at him at once, things he never even thought of before. “So my new wand can have an impact on my magic?”  
  
“Not your magic, Potter. Merely your casting efficiency. Some easier spells may be more difficult, while spells you’ve had trouble with may now come easier to you.”  
  
“I… see.”  
  
That sounded an awful lot like having an impact on his magic.  
  
“Well then,” McGonagall gestured to the door. “If there’s nothing else?”  
  
“Nothing. Have a good day, Professor,” Harry murmured, giving her a nod as he deserted the room.

* * *

 _ **Tap! Tap! Tap!**_  
  
Cornelius Fudge was having a terrible week.  
  
It had all started since the night of the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament. In hindsight, Ludo Bagman actually _winning_ a bet should have been portent enough to tell him that something was utterly, utterly wrong. That man had the worst luck when it came to betting. In fact, if a magical trait called _Sucker_ could exist, Ludo would be the one wizard to inherit it.  
  
Seeing Bagman win not just one bet, but take home a veritable jackpot of six hundred galleons, along with a rare bottle of Ogden’s 1863 Grand Cru Firewhiskey should have been enough to signal the end of times. Seriously, where were those divination nerds when you needed them?  
  
And now, his entire world had been thrown into an upheaval.  
  
 _ **Tap! Tap! Tap!**_  
  
Twelve purebloods found dead, six of whom held Wizengamot seats while two were actual Lords of Ancient and Noble Houses. The other four held respectable bureaucratic positions in the ministry.  
  
All of them were found dead and rotting.  
  
All of them were found wearing Death Eater regalia.  
  
And all of them were killed via an inexplicable magical phenomenon, associated with one Harry James Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived.  
  
Between the loss of his voting bloc and the recent wedge that developed between himself and Albus Dumbledore, Cornelius could feel the ground crumbling beneath him.  
  
His fingers began to drum faster against the tabletop— a telltale sign of his growing anxiety. Despite years of practice and therapy, this one habit always seemed to be out of his reach. Uncontrollable.  
  
 _ **Tap! Tap! Tap!**  
  
At least I still have Lucius. If he ended up…_  
  
Cornelius shook his head vehemently, shaking the perilous thought out of his mind before it could form.  
  
He glanced at his watch.  
  
 _Why isn’t she back yet?_  
  
He had gotten a missive from Amelia Bones the previous afternoon, after she’d returned to the DMLE offices from conducting an official interrogation of the Potter boy.  
  
And the Weasley boy had also done a good job of informing him about how Dumbledore had practically strong-armed him into letting the interrogation go the way he demanded. From what he was told, whenever the Weasley had tried to direct their investigation to whatever Potter had done in the graveyard, Dumbledore forcefully changed the topic to something else.  
  
Something was amiss, and Dumbledore was trying to keep it from the Ministry.  
  
Keep it from him.  
  
That alone said a lot about the man’s nonexistent ambitions. Come to think of it, hadn’t Dumbledore always ensured that he followed his commands?  
  
Cornelius lightly shuddered.  
  
Was that it, then? Had Britain simply been unable to grasp the reality of the situation all this time? Perhaps Albus Dumbledore had no intention of being the Minister of Magic.  
  
No, his goal was far more sinister.  
  
With himself sitting on the throne from within Hogwarts, and the famous Boy-Who-Lived under his thumb, Dumbledore enjoyed the power he wielded over the future of British Magical society. And with this entire hoax of the Dark Lord’s return on top of that, he’d be the first person Magical Britain looked to in a time of such strife. At that point, it wouldn’t even matter if he officially took the seat of Minister or not. The Ministry, _his_ beloved Ministry, would become nothing more than the old man’s puppet.  
  
If his hunch was right, then this was just the opening salvo.  
  
Killing off Cornelius’s supporters through esoteric magics would only be the first of many steps, something that probably wouldn’t be difficult for the old man. Cornelius readily admitted that the aged headmaster had likely forgotten more spells than most people managed to learn in a lifetime.  
  
And now, in less than three days, before he could even react to Dumbledore’s previous move, the wily Headmaster had already begun to place his next pawn upon the stage.  
  
The trial of Sirius Black.  
  
Cornelius was many things, but a fool he was not.  
  
He had suspected some wrongdoing back when the Potter boy and his friends had yelled at him about Black being innocent. Of course, their incoherent babbling about how the man never had a trial only served to make their account less credible, seeing as how going through the Black case had been one of the first things Cornelius had done before releasing the dementor population to hunt him down.  
  
He had checked— and double-checked —the man’s trial records, and the entire thing was well-documented. Sirius Black had received a court trial and, under the truth-inducing effects of veritaserum, had confessed to the murderer of Peter Pettigrew.  
  
There should have been no room for doubt.  
  
Even Dumbledore wouldn’t be able to save someone who was so clearly guilty.  
  
And yet, he did.  
  
 _Somehow_ , Dumbledore had managed to pull a body from the grave and shown the world that Peter Pettigrew was alive. At least before whatever act of magic struck him dead along with the others in the graveyard. There was still an issue of the thirteen muggles that Black had apparently killed, but since the main reason behind his incarceration was Pettigrew’s death, the rest of the case’s evidence would be called into question in light of recent findings. As such, he’d been forced to grant the man another chance at proving himself innocent.  
  
And Cornelius was perfectly fine with that.  
  
After all, Sirius Black was a pureblood. A scion from a Noble and Most Ancient House.  
  
No, his problem was entirely different. Cornelius might not have gotten enough NEWTs back in Hogwarts to become a solicitor, but one did not become Minister of Magic without picking up bits of legal knowledge along the way.  
  
Maintaining his position as Minister over the years had required him to maintain a delicate balance amongst the Wizengamot members. A feat made considerably easier by the fact that Cornelius had a terrifying amount of information about the skeletons in their well-hidden closets.  
  
It was something of a hobby.  
  
Some people collected stamps. Others collected chocolate frog cards. Cornelius Fudge collected _secrets._  
  
And one of those dirty little secrets involved the House of Black.  
  
Sirius Black had bred true.  
  
He held _family_ magic.  
  
This meant that it didn’t matter that the man had renounced his house. It didn’t matter that Narcissa Malfoy née Black was set to inherit before him. In fact, absolutely none of Lucius’s political maneuvering over the past decade, slowly taking control of the Black family fortune, mattered at all.  
  
With the one true and remaining heir about to be released, Sirius would become the next Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.  
  
Malfoy’s hold over the Black name and fortune would go up in flames.  
  
And with it, Cornelius’s powerbase at the Ministry of Magic.  
  
And all of it was set to begin in three hours.  
  
 _ **Tap! Tap! Ta—**_  
  
The door slid open, and Percy Weasley stepped in.  
  
“Ah, Weatherby.”  
  
Despite the gravity of his situation, Cornelius brightened up a little at seeing the tiny twitch on the young man’s forehead. For a strapping lad from a family of sociable people, Percy had a rather large stick stuck up his stoic arse, if he did say so himself. Sure, Arthur Weasley and his pro-muggleborn stance was often an annoyance to him. But even so, Cornelius couldn’t bring himself to actively feel disdain for such a polite and agreeable fellow.  
  
Compared to him, Percy stuck out like a sore thumb. He had walked out of Hogwarts as Gryffindor Prefect and then Head Boy, all with excellent NEWT scores. And then he joined the Ministry under ol’ Barty in the Department of International Cooperation.  
  
 _Bah!_ Cornelius scoffed. As if Barty Crouch’s constipated face could ever contribute to anything remotely related to _cooperation._ That Percy had been overzealous to carry out Barty’s every whim had not scored him points anywhere.  
  
Cornelius had then approached the lad, offering him the position of Junior Undersecretary for a hidden purpose— to spy on the Weasleys, a family well-known to harbor strong connections to Dumbledore. So, naturally, he’d been more than upset when Percy waltzed in through the front door, snobbishly declaring that he’d denounced his family completely.  
  
Cornelius’s eyes hadn’t stopped twitching that day.  
  
And that was how he’d been saddled with an extra attendant— Percy Weatherby. After all, if the boy willingly renounced his name, then he should be ready to suffer the consequences of such an action.  
  
“The woman you called for has arrived, sir.”  
  
“Has she now? Well quit dawdling and bring her in, Weatherby.”  
  
And there was that funny little twitch all over again.  
  
“Is it true that Madam Higgins is retiring, sir? And that this… woman is going to hold her position?”  
  
“Ah, you heard about that, did you Weatherby?”  
  
“It’s _Weasley,_ sir.”  
  
“Oh, my apologies. How embarrassing!” Cornelius rapped his fingers on the table, staring at the boy and waiting for him to leave the room.  
  
But his new assistant just stood there, not seeming to get the hint.  
  
“Did you have something else to say?”  
  
“Sir,” Percy intoned, probably with as much snobbishness as he could muster. “I must question the idea of appointing a random woman to such an important position.”  
  
“Random?” Cornelius arched an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”  
  
“Well sir, she’s a _librarian_.”  
  
“She’s worked for the International Confederation of Wizards, Weatherby.”  
  
“She’s spent a few years working in the ICW Archives. Forgive me for saying this, but the position amounts to nothing more than a glorified _librarian_.”  
  
Cornelius couldn’t help but shoot the boy a snide look. Sure, he was appointing what was basically a librarian to a top-level posting in the Ministry, but the woman in question had certain… attributes that made her a rather interesting candidate for what he had in mind. Everything else was superficial and disregardable.  
  
“It’s too large a jump, sir,” Percy began. “I suggest you start her out as an apprentice to me and then, once I’m promoted, you can place her as Junior Undersecretary, But starting out as the Undersecretary—”  
  
“ _Senior_ Undersecretary,” Cornelius corrected. “She’s a smart woman, and you’ll do well under her.”  
  
Cornelius paused, throwing the lad a brilliant smile as he drank in his look of horror.  
  
“But— but _sir!_ ”  
  
“I’ve made up my mind, Weatherby. It’ll be good for you. Now please fetch her, and free up my schedule for the rest of the day. I have some work to attend to.”  
  
“...Yes, sir,” came the miserable voice as he made his way to the door.  
  
As the kid began to leave, Cornelius couldn’t resist throwing out a parting shot. “You did well today. Close the door on your way out, Perky.”  
  
The way Percy’s fingers twitched as he closed the door behind him well and truly brightened his day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	4. Act 1 - Disillusioned | Chapter 3 - Right and Easy

It rained cats and dogs the day the funerals were done.  
  
In ancient times, before the birth of the modern-day Wizengamot, an outpouring right after cremation was considered auspicious. Rainwater, the wizards of antiquity believed, had the magical ability to carry the spiritual essences of the dead past the trials of the afterlife. The dead would be gone, their unfulfilled aspirations satiated by the falling rain, and would never return to haunt the living world as ghosts. As such, it was commonplace for descendants to keep funeral pyres burning in everlasting flame, until the Old Gods took pity on them.  
  
Time and progress had made such rituals obsolete, but like all things, a fix was applied.  
  
Weather Charms.  
  
Weather manipulation was an incredibly difficult and esoteric branch of magic, one that was only possible through the combined efforts of an entire Wizengamot sitting. Every single person that held a seat in those sanctified halls would stand up and pledge their magic in hopes of altering the very course of Nature itself.  
  
To cause rain.  
  
Tumultuous rain.  
  
It was in such rain that Harry Potter stood, drenched from head to toe, his bare feet touching the lush green grass of the lawn inside the outer gates of Hogwarts. The entire staff— each of the professors, the matron, and of course, Dumbledore himself —stood with him, their robes soaked by the stormless, windless rain showering down from the clouds, flooding and furrowing through the bushes as it flowed downhill.  
  
He peered around, then across the little cliff, before suddenly something wet and squishy hit him squarely in the face. Flinching, he slapped it off and watched as the object fell to the ground with a loud _thud_ and let out a long, arduous croak.  
  
 _A frog—?_  
  
Before he could even consider why it was raining _frogs_ of all things, the little creature dissolved into peals of colorless rainwater and flowed away, mixing with the rest of the droplets that pelted the dreary school grounds.  
  
Harry blinked at the sight.  
  
"Anything wrong, Mister Potter?"  
  
It was Professor McGonagall.  
  
"Uh, no. Just looking around. I've never been a part of such traditions before," he murmured, avoiding the witch's gaze. Regardless of the fact that the dead mostly consisted of Death Eaters, a death was still just that. A death. The fact that they'd all perished because of some inexplicable magic tied to him didn't help matters any.  
  
It was at the point that even _he_ couldn't stop feeling morose about it all. A couple more days of this, and he'd be surprised if he didn't end up visiting the Ministry of Magic himself and claim his guilt.  
  
The very thought was alarming.  
  
"Most modern, liberal families follow the Christian way, Potter. Halfbloods and muggleborns, they prefer to bury their dead in cemeteries."  
  
"So this is a pureblood thing," he clarified. Talking to McGonagall was a good distraction, and distractions were exactly what he needed at the moment.  
  
McGonagall shook her head. "It's a _magical_ thing, Potter. Symbolism. Rainwater carries the ashes of the dead to the afterlife and beyond." She looked towards the other professors, who were now starting to march towards the school building. "The Wizengamot does not perform such a ritual very lightly."  
  
"Then—"  
  
"In fact," she continued uninterrupted, "the last time this happened was back in 1978."  
  
"The year my parents graduated?"  
  
"That's correct," the stern professor affirmed. "Prior to that, nearly every pureblood family rallied under the Dark Lord's banner. Even those that rejected his ideology agreed on the _natural_ inferiority of muggles."  
  
The very thought made Harry's nose crinkle.  
  
"It was only what he did in that specific year that changed the tides."  
  
"What did he do?"  
  
McGonagall grimly smiled. "He led a carnage on Diagon Alley. More than two hundred people were killed."  
  
"And everyone _finally_ realized he was a murdering murderous murder?"  
  
The transfiguration professor raised a single eyebrow, an act which possessed more grace than his entire body.  
  
Being a cat animagus clearly had its perks.  
  
"Death has a far deeper meaning for us magicals, Potter. Every witch and wizard, good or bad, carries the potential to grow and develop magic in a myriad of ways. The death of that potential is an immense loss to our society. To our _world_."  
  
"The same applies to muggles and their world, you know."  
  
"Must we have a conversation where you keep interrupting me every sentence?"  
  
Harry wisely decided to shut up.  
  
McGonagall cleared her throat. "As I was saying, any death of life is a sad thing, Potter. But make no mistake, the Dark Lord killed hundreds of muggles, and his movement killed _thousands_. But that didn't matter to Wizarding Britain, not in the slightest."  
  
"Because they weren't magical," Harry spat.  
  
"Quite so."  
  
"That feels like something Draco Malfoy would say."  
  
"They say wisdom oft comes from the mouth of babes," McGonagall replied. "As significant and infamous as the rivalry between yourself and Mr. Malfoy may be, such a statement is not necessarily untrue. Our world and theirs are _different_."  
  
" _Our_ world?" Harry drawled. "You almost sound like a pureblood, Professor."  
  
McGonagall smirked mirthlessly. "I _am_ a pureblood, Potter. And so are you. Even if you do not lay claim to such a title."  
  
"I'm not a pureblood," he hotly retorted. "I'm a halfblood, and—"  
  
"And it would do you good to first acquaint yourself with the rules and traditions of the society you live in before commenting further, Potter. Magic affects us— all of us —in subtle ways. All those witches and wizards, standing in tandem and offering their respects to the dead, unified in their realization and belief that Lord Voldemort was an enemy that should be destroyed… It managed to turn the tide of the war."  
  
"I don't understand," he frowned.  
  
"Before 1978, _Lord Voldemort_ was the leader of the Pureblood Supremacy movement. But after the carnage of Diagon Alley, the movement lay in ashes. All that remained was a Dark Lord and his sycophants. The Death Eaters."  
  
Harry frowned again, but said nothing.  
  
She tightly gripped his shoulder, "Our world is shaped by our perceptions. By our thoughts. By our emotions. By our faiths and beliefs. A single grain of sand on the beach may be meaningless, but collect enough to build something like the moon, and you can create tides in the oceans. For us magicals, our emotions and beliefs are those grains of sand. When funneled together, it can alter reality itself."  
  
She squarely met his eyes.  
  
"Your second year. You told me that I stood by and did nothing back then." The tone of her voice was completely even. "I didn't, because I understood what was going on. Even I myself was not immune to its effects. It was only our positions as professors that resisted the effects of the collective emotive magic at work."  
  
Harry stood speechless. "I don't— what are you—"  
  
"Believe it or not, what you faced that year wasn't pigheadedness on the part of the students, Potter. The _Heir of Slytherin_ is a title that generates fear and paranoia and anger in the very heart of Magical Britain. Your speaking Parseltongue only further funneled those emotions towards you. The unreasonable behavior from the students was merely a manifestation of the subtle effects of this emotive magic at work."  
  
"I… see," he mumbled.  
  
"You should," the woman spoke up, her volume rising, "before it is too late. A funeral like this altered the course of the Great War, and now…"  
  
Now, he— the Boy-Who-Lived —had become the reason for another such funeral.  
  
He had become the sink for public resentment.  
  
Anger.  
  
Fear.  
  
Paranoia.  
  
Skeeter would probably have a field day. Or a year. Whatever.  
  
"You've got to be more careful from now on, Potter. The people who died may be followers of the Dark Lord, but they were influential parts of our society. Members of Ancient Houses. Old Magic. They had a significant impact on our world, as employers, statesmen, businessmen. Their deaths carry far more meaning, magical and otherwise, than you might imagine."  
  
"More meaning than a muggleborn?" he couldn't help but ask.  
  
McGonagall pursed her lips.  
  
"It's truly unfortunate that out of all the things you could incorporate from Miss Granger's methodical thinking, you fixate on the one thing she's got all wrong."  
  
"And what's that?"  
  
"That the muggle world plus wand-waving somehow equals the magical world, Potter. It doesn't. They are two _separate_ worlds, each with their own culture, their own values, their own ways of life. The sooner you open your eyes to the truth of that, the sooner you'll be able to see things more clearly."  
  
Harry stubbornly looked away, causing McGonagall to sigh.  
  
"I see now that while Gryffindor might have attuned your outlook towards liberal thinking, it has also shut you off from other avenues." She took a step back. "Had you not, you'd have realized what being the Boy-Who-Lived truly means in our world."  
  
"I don't want sycophants of my own, Professor."  
  
"That's not what I meant," the Scottish woman muttered, shooting him a sharp look before she turned away, leaving him alone in the pouring rain.  
  
Only his thoughts kept him company now.  
  
"Another year of name-calling, then?" Harry murmured distastefully. At this point, self-deprecating sarcasm was practically second nature. His initial fallout with Ron, a lousy mending of his relationship with his best friends after a deadly dance with a fearsome dragon, Cedric's death, and most recently, the loss of his beloved wand. It was just one thing after another.  
  
At this point, Fate may as well throw in another year of abuse and continue the pattern.  
  
 _At least this time,_ the cynical part of his mind chimed in, _it won't be without cause.  
  
I didn't kill them,_ Harry furiously whispered back.  
  
…  
  
 _Do you really believe that?_  
  
The silence that ensued did nothing to make him feel better.

* * *

The sharp sound of something slapping against the hard wooden desk jolted him out of sleep. Harry looked up, his eyes groggy and eardrums ringing.  
  
And found a half-irate Snape standing in front of him.  
  
 _Just peachy._  
  
Had he fallen asleep during Potions again? Harry pushed himself off the desk, rummaging around the empty desk for his book and cauldron implements, but found nothing. Instead, there was a large and unhealthy-sized tome about wizarding traditions. Great! He'd lose even more points. Why didn't Ron—  
  
His jumbled mess of thoughts screeched to a halt as his eyes fell upon the tome once more.  
  
 **Wizarding Britain. An Incomplete And Unreliable Guide.**  
  
Then it hit him. He wasn't in Potions. The school term was over, and he had dozed off while reading a book written by some uninspired sod about wizarding traditions.  
  
"Are you done making a fool out of yourself, Potter?"  
  
Oh, right. _Snape._ He'd nearly forgotten about him.  
  
Harry looked at the rolled-up newspaper that Snape had slapped against his desk.  
  
Then he looked back up at the dour professor.  
  
Then back at the newspaper.  
  
"Potter!" the professor barked, jolting out of his repetitive actions.  
  
"Uh— yes, professor?"  
  
"I was told you were comatose the night of the Third Task. I wasn't aware the event left your mind addled."  
  
And just like that, every ounce of confusion vanished from Harry's face, leaving behind nothing but a mutinous expression.  
  
Snape's lips twisted into a victorious smirk.  
  
"Did you need something?" Harry grunted.  
  
"Did you need something, _sir_ ," Snape corrected.  
  
"There's no need to call me sir, Professor."  
  
Before he knew it, the newspaper had been lifted off the desk, and something large and papery slammed against Harry's head. He stared at the greasy-haired man with immense loathing, rubbing the top of his head.  
  
"The Headmaster has summoned you to his office."  
  
"Professor Dumbledore?"  
  
"There has been no change in Headmasters, Potter. But I'm glad to see you're trying to keep up."  
  
"Gee, thanks, Professor. It was nice to banter like a five-year-old."  
  
The man's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Harry hoped he didn't know of a spell that could evaporate someone on spot. Snape was supposed to be scarily good with the Dark Arts, after all. Even so, this meaningless antagonistic banter with the professor was something he was used to over the years. A dance of sorts that felt strangely normal and cathartic.  
  
…That right there said a lot about the kind of life he'd been living thus far.  
  
Come to think of it, he couldn't really _think_ of any other kind of day. This was still far better than staying with the Dursleys, or hiding in unused classrooms when he wanted to avoid Ron and Hermione's attention.  
  
On the other hand, he wasn't really sure what he'd even do if he had any other kind of day. Because franky, he was built— by both experience and inclination —for turmoil and mayhem. Things going south, and then some more. Having everyone stare at him like he was some sort of criminal. Evil cackling madmen involving him in overcomplicated plans and esoteric magics to screw with his life.  
  
As his thoughts progressed from one scenario to the next, Harry found himself feeling increasingly gloomy.  
  
 _I think… I've made some bad choices in life._  
  
He wondered if the Wizarding World offered career counselors, before remembering that he was supposed to attend one this very year. The year before his OWL examinations. His eyes refocused back onto Snape, realizing that the man was still just standing there.  
  
"…Do you wish to say something to me?" he asked cautiously, before quickly adding a 'sir'.  
  
Snape glanced at the title of his time and shot him a not-smile. "Wizarding Traditions. Finally wising up, I see."  
  
"It was Professor McGonagall's idea."  
  
The potions professor ignored him. "Professor Dumbledore has asked me to inform you that you'll be having remedial potions this upcoming year, Potter. With me."  
  
"Huh? Why?"  
  
Snape shot him a dark stare.  
  
"I mean—" Harry backpedaled, "I scored an EE in Potions, Professor."  
  
"Because the Dark Lord," Snape's voice went several decibels lower, "is back, and the Headmaster assures me that you have some modicum of talent in Defense against the Dark Arts. It is his wish that I train you into becoming a passable wizard that can survive being ambushed by Death Eaters."  
  
Harry felt a little elated at having someone— _anyone_ —teach him something that was useful in a fight. Between Lockart's little dueling club and the random spells he'd learned practicing for the Triwizard Tournament, his own arsenal of spells was not only limited in nature, but also incredibly easy to figure out.  
  
He was no expert duelist, but even he knew that being predictable in a fight wasn't a great idea.  
  
"Why can't Professor Dumbledore teach me himself?"  
  
It was a logical question. After all, Dumbledore was the one wizard Voldemort ever feared. Not that he'd say no to Snape— the best person to teach him about fighting Death Eaters would be a Death Eater.  
  
Barty Crouch Junior had taught him that much.  
  
"Albus Dumbledore has more important things to do than teach a fourteen-year-old how to properly hold his wand," Snape scoffed. "And I'll have you know Potter, I offered my services for this. You know of my role as a spy in the Dark Lord's camp. I'd sleep better knowing the person the Headmaster is betting everything on can actually cross the road without having his head blown off."  
  
Oddly enough, that was probably the nicest thing Snape had ever said to him. Which said everything about their relationship—  
  
Harry blinked. Did Snape just admit to offering him training? Of his own free will?  
  
He rubbed his eyes.  
  
Nope. The illusion was still intact.  
  
"But—" Harry began, "Dumbledore would be better suited to teach—" He quickly stopped that line of thought, seeing the man's grave features. "I mean, if he wanted to—"  
  
"The Headmaster's original idea was for me to train you in the mystic art known as Occlumency, a mechanism through which you could learn to resist against psychic attacks."  
  
"What sort of psychic attacks?" Harry questioned. He'd come across Veela allure and broken through both Voldemort's and fake-Moody's Imperius curses. Was that—  
  
"The kind that tells me you are confusing compulsion magics with psychic attacks."  
  
Harry's eyes widened. "You read my mind?"  
  
Snape's lips curled. "The mind is a complex, many-layered thing, Potter. Or, at least, the rest of our minds are. One does not simply open it like a book and read at their leisure. That said, the intrusive psychic art known as Legilimency does allow one to… slip past the victim's consciousness and shift through memory associations."  
  
Harry took a moment to process all that, though it still just sounded like mind-reading to him.  
  
He took another to realize that he and Snape were actually having a civilized conversation.  
  
Was this what growing up felt like?  
  
"So…" Harry trailed off, "what does this Occlude thing involve?"  
  
Snape's eyebrows dangerously twitched. "More than what I can explain in a single conversation. But given the connection between your curse-scar and the Dark Lord, the Headmaster believes it is of the utmost importance that you are trained in _Occlumency_ as quickly as possible."  
  
"And you're going to teach it to me?"  
  
"No, Potter. The Headmaster will."  
  
His eyes brightened. Getting trained by Albus Dumbledore? Even though he had no clue what this Occlumens-thing was about, it felt great.  
  
And that left DADA. And remedial potions.  
  
With Snape.  
  
…Bugger.  
  
"Uhm, when will my remedial potions classes start then?"  
  
The man's face twisted into a sneer. That, or it was his go-to expression for anything related to scholastic pursuits for non-Slytherins.  
  
"I'll inform you of the details once the next term begins. Till then, I expect you to perform some light-reading on the subject and…" he paused, "avail yourself of a wand. Preferably one that isn't _dead_."  
  
And just like that, all hope for mutual cooperation and a non-antagonistic relationship between them withered away.  
  
"I will," Harry threw back.  
  
The man shot him another not-smile "Good to know. And for your information, Potter, the Headmaster doesn't like to be kept waiting."  
  
"Whatever you say, Professor."

* * *

For someone who'd spent the better part of two decades trying to attain his freedom, Sirius Black wasn't all that sure about how to go about things once said freedom actually entered his life.  
  
It probably had something to do with the fact that this freedom was a byproduct of his godson's trial. There had been no mad rush to prove Pettigrew as the real betrayer. No going to the ends of the world and back to see justice prevail and prove his own innocence in front of a body of hard-hearted people wearing purple robes and seated in shadows. Instead, it had been a neat little trial involving a warm beef sandwich and a butterbeer, followed with a couple of formal affidavits sworn in person while Madam Bones, in her official capacity as the Head of the DMLE, stood as Witness to the event.  
  
As a bonus, he'd also been reinstated to his position as Senior Hit-Wizard and offered back pay all the way since 1981. And if he had read things right, there was a promotion somewhere down the line and a paid trip to a psychiatrist session in the Bahamas coming up soon.  
  
Not exactly a tale of gallantry, love, and loss, but those veela massage parlors had to count for something, right?  
  
Naturally, his very first job as godfather to Harry Potter had been to fill up the form for one more passenger— his godson —for the trip.  
  
The only thing left was convincing the wily Headmaster.  
  
"Dumbledore, Harry's my godson and it's my job to teach him about all the nice things in life. I've missed thirteen years of having him in my life— no thanks to all of you —so I'll thank you not to get in my way now."  
  
"Sirius," he heard the old headmaster sigh. It was almost magical how the man managed to express more disappointment with a mere sigh than Mum could after shouting her lungs out for an hour.  
  
No, there was definitely something to be said about the Greatest Wizard of the Century. And then some.  
  
"You know with Voldemort being back, Harry's protection is of paramount importance. He needs to be kept under protection and, as much as it hurts me to say this, trained enough to resist Voldemort when he comes— and he will —for him again."  
  
"And where, pray tell, would he feel protected?" Sirius retorted. "At the Dursley home?"  
  
"Merlin, no," Dumbledore's mustache quivered. "I wasn't born yesterday, Sirius. With Voldemort back, the wards around the Dursley home are nowhere near powerful enough."  
  
Sirius narrowed his eyes. Dumbledore had just agreed with him. _Dumbledore!_ When something like that happened, as rare as it was, it was a telltale sign to expect the unexpected.  
  
"Which is why I prefer to keep him at Hogwarts. Under my direct supervision."  
  
And there was it.  
  
"Hogwarts? Harry just went through all that trauma, and you know how the Daily Prophet is polarizing everything against him. The last thing he needs is to be alone."  
  
"I have often found that solitude is a balm to my sufferings, Sirius."  
  
"And you don't look a year older than a hundred and five. Harry's _fifteen_."  
  
"And a grieving student who has gone through too much," Dumbledore countered. "He's not _James,_ Sirius. He's not the type of young man you can tempt into gallivanting away on this Bahamas trip you've been going on about."  
  
Just like that, Sirius's excitement vanished, replaced by a dark, blank stare that overtook his countenance.  
  
"I'm perfectly aware of who he is, thank you."  
  
"Are you?" Dumbledore questioned. "Because what Harry needs right now is time to grieve, and once he has, then time to train. To learn how to survive. To be brought into confidence over the true state of affairs of our world."  
  
"He's also just a _boy,_ Dumbledore, one who really needs to take a break and see the nice things in life. You want him protected, but I want to give him a _life_." Sirius's tone became louder, his voice cracking and rumbling. "Don't take me for a fool, Albus. I've poked around. Learned about his home life. I know what kind of deranged muggle Petunia Dursley can be."  
  
His entire body began to shake.  
  
Maybe Bones had been onto something when she'd added the psychiatry session to the deal.  
  
"You think," the Headmaster's voice lowered, and the temperature in the room drastically dropped, "that I _don't know that?"_  
  
The air was starting to feel heavy, as an immense pressure began to press down on him.  
  
"Every single day, every single moment that boy spent in that _place,_ I cursed myself for doing it to him. Every single time the baby suffered, I forcibly restrained myself from taking action. From snatching him away from those _vile, despicable muggles."_  
  
"Then why didn't you?" Sirius asked, crossing his hands across his chest and suppressing his urge to quiver. "For your vaunted Greater Good?"  
  
Albus Dumbledore sat ramrod straight, both palms flat against his desk. To a neutral observer, it might have seemed like an interesting stance, but the slight wrinkles on his face and the way his aura stood, poised around him— it was like a vicious cobra, ready to strike at a moment's notice.  
  
The world inside the office room froze.  
  
Sirius wasn't ashamed to admit that he'd take an angry Dumbledore, wand blazing and lashing out, than this cold blizzard that was building up a silent, corrosive fury.  
  
"Because," Dumbledore's tone became feather-soft, "there was _no_ other option."  
  
The sudden change in his demeanor took Sirius aback. "Explain."  
  
The old headmaster sighed, and just like that, the air felt lighter once more. The world inside the office room unfroze. The large grandfather-clock sitting on the extreme right began to move again.  
  
Sirius exhaled, feeling like he'd taken his first breath after running a marathon.  
  
"You are a scion of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, Sirius. You, more than anyone else, know about the stipulations and clauses put forth by the Ancient Houses during the Founding of the Wizengamot. More specifically, about the laws and rites to succession."  
  
Sirius rolled his eyes. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, he was the _prodigal son_ of the House of Black. And yet, it was him who had been named Heir by his grandfather, Arcturus Sirius Black, mere days before his sudden demise. Sirius's father Orion had been overstepped in that decision— something that made Walburga hate her wayward son just that much more.  
  
As Heir to the successorship of the Black name and magic, Sirius, like all purebloods, had been taught the proper traditions and customs since he was a babe.  
  
Customs he remembered to this day.  
  
"After the death of his father Fleamont Potter in 1979, James was in no shape to take over the Lordship, and he… passed away before taking on the mantle himself. The Annexure of 1261 is very clear on this matter. As the child of an heir and not a Lord, baby Harry had about as many rights as a non-heir child of a pureblood family. Which is to say, _none_."  
  
Dumbledore stood up, his gaunt features only accentuating his age and emotional baggage. "In that context, baby Harry— the son of _pureblood_ James Potter and muggleborn Lily Evans-Potter, was supposed to be sent to his blood relatives, or be raised by a foster family, or worse, placed in an orphanage under Ministry custody."  
  
Sirius paled at that prospect. "Harry's the Boy-Who-Lived. I doubt even Millicent Bagnold would have gotten away with that."  
  
Dumbledore chortled. "The old hag would have cut off her own limbs for a chance to raise the baby. Amos Diggory volunteered. Richard Bones volunteered. As did several other families across all factions. The Ministry decided to put the matter to a general vote to decide on the question of ownership."  
  
Dumbledore paused, gazing at Sirius.  
  
"Then we found out that James and Lily made you his godfather."  
  
And Sirius felt an irrepressible urge to groan.  
  
The Godparent Ritual was a magical pact steeped deep in wizarding history. In the days of old, only the mother of a newborn child had the power to name her child, since she was the one that brought them into this world. Once that was done, the mother would choose a suitable person to act in _her_ stead— provide home and hearth to the child in the mother's absence. For Ancient Houses, this person was usually the sitting Lord— an action that ensured the safety and well-being of the child while protecting him from inappropriate advances made by other members of the family over any familial disputes.  
  
Magically, it raised the baby's position to _Heir_ to the sitting Lord. It didn't matter to the scheme if an Heir Apparent was already in place, but should anything untoward happen to the Heir Apparent, the godchild could serve as an appropriate substitute. It was a neat little hole in the law, one that allowed godchildren to assassinate Heir Apparents and take their place until a new clause was added to the archaic law in 1592, prohibiting any married Lord from becoming Godparent to a pureblood child.  
  
Fortunately— or unfortunately —the circumstances fit Sirius Black to the tee. Single, Heir Apparent to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, even though he had believed himself banished from the family at that time.  
  
So when Lily Potter had suggested the Godparent Ritual, Sirius had readily agreed, not really understanding the implications of what he was agreeing to. After all, Harry was James and Lily's son. For all he knew, he was honoring a Christian tradition to the child of a muggleborn witch.  
  
The Black Family Magic hadn't seen it that way.  
  
The moment he had agreed to become Godfather, he had assured one Harry James Potter of family, hearth and home. He had invited the baby in with open arms to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.  
  
"...Bugger!"  
  
Dumbledore glared at him, and Sirius had a sneaking suspicion it wasn't because of his sudden and unexpected use of profanity.  
  
"Imagine my displeasure when I find out that Lily Potter's son is to be sent to his closest _magical relative,_ Narcissa Malfoy."  
  
Sirius swallowed. It didn't take a genius to see what came next.  
  
"You should be thanking your lucky stars, Sirius Orion Black," Dumbledore exclaimed, drawing himself to his fullest height, "that the Dark Lord had just been defeated and Lucius Malfoy's credibility was comparably low. Using my position as the so-called," he grimaced, " _Leader of the Light_ , I spun Harry's situation to that of a muggleborn. With Bagnold's aid and public sympathy, Lily Potter's _last wishes_ were made public, which listed Petunia Dursley as the next recipient right after you."  
  
"But the Dursleys are—"  
  
"Muggles, I know," Albus exhaled, moving towards the open window. "Muggles whom I had no trust in. Muggles who weren't fit to even be seen near a magical child. Petunia's thoughts about her sister were out in the open for anyone with eyes to see."  
  
Sirius ignored the _casual_ tone in which the vaunted Headmaster of Hogwarts had all but admitted use of Legilimency on a muggle.  
  
"And yet," the venerated wizard continued with a grimace, "she was a muggle that shared Lily's blood. Blood that held power. Protection. Love for her child. The power of that sacrifice, of her blood flowing through both Harry and Petunia's veins, powered by Harry's own magic, was more than enough to keep him safe at the Dursleys."  
  
"As long as Petunia was alive," Sirius pointed out.  
  
"Which is why I planted Arabella Figg in the neighborhood. To keep track of Harry over the years and let me know if anything significant happened."  
  
Sirius stared at the old man. There were a lot of things he wanted to say, but none escaped his throat. Every thought had a counter ready. Every accusation had its own shortcomings. All he could do was stare at the man who'd spent years doing his best for the child he had broken out from Azkaban to protect.  
  
The child that was his godson.  
  
Albus Dumbledore, worshipped as Merlin incarnate, the Leader of the Light, the Defeater of Grindelwald, the only wizard that Voldemort ever feared… Dumbledore was many things, but in that moment, only one word flitted across Sirius's mind as he stared at the old man.  
  
Fallible.  
  
Dumbledore was human. He made mistakes, no matter how well his intentions were. And even when he didn't, his best was not tantamount to a perfect solution.  
  
"For years," the Headmaster spoke, his tone broken, "I have wished to get Harry out of the Dursley home. To have him kept at Hogwarts, or at least one of the safer wizarding families where he could live among magicals, his own kind. But with Cornelius as Minister and Lucius Malfoy behind the proverbial wheel, I had to keep him where he was. Yes, Sirius, I knew I was condemning him to _ten dark and difficult years,_ but my priority was to keep him alive. Keep him pure. Away from Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy."  
  
"And after he came to Hogwarts?"  
  
"Five years ago, when Harry came to Hogwarts, he was neither happy nor as well-nourished as I'd like. But he was _alive_ , and healthy. Lucius Malfoy sent his son to befriend him, but in a stroke of Fate, young Harry chose to befriend a young Ronald Weasley instead. The events with Quirrell showed me I couldn't leave Harry in the Wizarding World, and instead had him sent home once more."  
  
"And then Harry proved me innocent last year," Sirius mumbled.  
  
"He did," Dumbledore nodded, "and now that you're finally free, I can allow Harry to stay wherever he likes, so long as he has his rightful guardian's permission."  
  
"And you want him to stay in Hogwarts," Sirius concluded.  
  
"I do," Albus affirmed. "I may not like it, but I do. It is the best course of action available to me at this moment. You are a free man, but you need to get your life back. Buy a house. Reconnect with old friends. As soon as you are settled somewhere, I'm certain young Harry would be very happy to join you."  
  
"I already have a house, Dumbledore, in case you forgot. The Black Townhouse."  
  
The old man's brows furrowed. "The one in London?"  
  
"Got it in one, Remus and I are trying to make it habitable. Harry liked him as a Defense professor. He'd like it there."  
  
For once, the Headmaster seemed to actually be considering the idea.  
  
This was his make-or-break moment.  
  
He pushed forward. "You know my family home can provide more protection for Harry than Hogwarts ever can. Harry gets to stay with his family, and Remus and I can even train him in DADA. With Voldemort back, things are going to get hairy, but for James and Lily's sake, let the boy enjoy some freedom for once."  
  
"And let me guess," the man sighed. "A trip to a foreign beach is part of that package?"  
  
Sirius's devious grin did nothing to satiate the old wizard's fears.

* * *

The concept of expandable space was a household concept in wizarding life. The very first applications of such spaces dated back during the Viking Invasion, when the natives— practitioners of Wiccan crafts and sacrificial rituals to the Temple of Morrigan —would seek graveyards and ward them to prevent invaders from entering unless invited in. The method was so effective that new lattices of spellwork were added to the existing lands and powered by ley lines to increase the land space inside the graveyard, allowing more natives to seek shelter within.  
  
Today, expandable space was everywhere. From teabags to pouches to potion belts to travel trunks, the concept had exploded to everyday use, no matter the size. Even the Ministry of Magic was at least five times larger on the inside than the outside, and the very edifice was larger than half of London to begin with.  
  
Except Hogwarts.  
  
Unlike most ancient manors, Hogwarts wasn't built using expandable space. In fact, the insides of Hogwarts were much, _much_ smaller than the outside. Even after including the enormous number of classrooms and corridors and secret chambers and pipelines that went deep into the Black Lake, it accounted for barely a third of the space the structure occupied in the real world. Where all that extra space went to is one of the existing mysteries of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  
  
It was something Harry Potter would think about every time he took off on his broom to fly around the school grounds.  
  
Any other day, he'd have walked his way out of the library, traversed through three corridors, taken the stairs, and then walked all the way till the end of the second floor corridor, up to the gargoyle statue. But not today. Instead, he'd pulled out his Firebolt from his pouch and pierced through the afternoon sky, before taking a sharp dive towards the West Tower, where the Headmaster's office was located.  
  
Slipping through the window, Harry found himself standing in front of the stone gargoyle. _Hogwarts: A History_ stated that the gargoyle— alongside many others that sat perched atop the roof-tops of the other towers —were actual magical creatures cast to stone by Salazar Slytherin.  
  
Knowing what he knew about Slytherin and his fabled Chamber of Secrets, the fact took an entirely different meaning.  
  
"Goo-goo clusters," he intoned, with as much seriousness as the phrase deserved.  
  
The gargoyle groaned as it slid aside, allowing the path behind it to become accessible. Harry sidestepped the statue and walked through the spiral staircase that moved upwards to the upper half of the Tower, where a gleaming oak door with a brass griffin-shaped door knocker stood.  
  
The Headmaster's office.  
  
"Come in, Harry," came Dumbledore's voice.  
  
The oak door automatically swung open, making Harry frown.  
  
Every single time he'd come face-to-face with this door, the Headmaster called him in before he got a chance to knock. Really, what good was a shiny knocker if you were going to use a proximity ward instead? His best guess was that it was a way for the Headmaster to subtly assert his dominance, on top of the whole _inviting people into his office_ thing.  
  
That, or the old man was simply too fond of the knocker, and didn't want others to touch it.  
  
Harry could sympathize. He himself had a long, antagonistic relationship with _stains._ Allow one to gain an inch of a foothold into the house— let it grease one measly inch —and the next thing you know, it's _everywhere_.  
  
The worst part was that Aunt Petunia had no problems believing it was all his fault.  
  
Harry shuddered at the memory.  
  
Without waiting any longer, he strode ahead and twisted the knocker intentionally, before stepping into the circular room and—  
  
"SIRIUS!" he yelled, his annoyance immediately transforming into elation. The man in question widened his eyes in mirth and leapt at him, embracing him in a bear-hug. Harry felt the older man— his godfather —caress his locks fondly before pulling back, a beaming smile on his face.  
  
"Sorry, kid. It took me a while."  
  
"Sirius," Harry breathed, "you're here." He glanced at the Headmaster, then back to Sirius before it finally clicked. "The Ministry gave you a trial?"  
  
It was only after saying those words out loud that he realized how stressed he'd been feeling about it all.  
  
"They did," Sirius nodded happily. "As of one hour ago, I'm a free man."  
  
"That's—" Harry faltered, "that's great. I'm happy for you, Sirius."  
  
There went that dark thought twisting through his mind all over again. The one that kept questioning whether Sirius would still be willing to take him in.  
  
The dog animagus barked out a laugh. "Me and Dumbledore were just talking about you."  
  
"About...me?" He glanced towards Dumbledore, a hundred different thoughts flooding through his mind like colors of a kaleidoscope. Was this where he'd be rejected by his godfather? Was Dumbledore going to send him back to the Dursleys like he did every year? Would he—  
  
"Harry," Dumbledore interrupted. "I presume Professor Snape told you about your training?"  
  
He bobbed his head. "Snape didn't really expand on it. Just that you'd be teaching me Occlumency and he'd—"  
  
"Wait a minute," Sirius interrupted, staring at Dumbledore. "Occlumency? Why is Harry getting trained in Occlumency?"  
  
Harry twisted his neck so sharply he feared he'd get whiplash. Why was Sirius trying to get him to back down from training? Was he going to be like Mrs. Weasley and say he was too young? He couldn't imagine Sirius sending him a howler, warning him about stepping another toe out of the line.  
  
Harry grimaced. And now, he had an image of Sirius— dressed in Mrs. Weasley's robes, holding a frying pan in one hand and a wand in another— yelling at him.  
  
He couldn't help it. He chuckled.  
  
Out loud.  
  
Sirius blinked.  
  
And then Dumbledore blinked.  
  
"Uh— sorry, you were saying?"  
  
"Dumbledore, you know more than I do what Occlumency can do to the mind. I refuse to allow my godson to butcher his mindscape in fear of psychic assaults."  
  
"Sirius," Dumbledore's voice was grave, "I don't need to tell you how important it is for young Harry here to learn it. Lord Voldemort is possibly the greatest Legilimens the Wizarding World has known in centuries."  
  
"My great grandfather Sirius Arcturus Black II might have something to say about it, Headmaster. You know, the person _Gellert Grindelwald_ regarded as his guru in the dark arts? I _am_ his descendant, after all. And not to underestimate the Dark Lord's prowess, but he can't know more about the subject than the very House infamous for developing it in the first place."  
  
Harry stared wide-eyed at the person in front of him. Sirius wasn't being the goofy, emotional, impulsive man he'd come to know over the past year, but rather someone who was exerting his own power, flexing a strange aura around him like any other muscle. It almost made him want to bow down, realize his place among the clearly _superior_ beings in the room.  
  
And then, it was gone.  
  
As if it hadn't ever been there.  
  
 _Odd_ , he mused. A moment later, his godfather's words finally registered in his mind. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Sirius cut him off.  
  
"I've personally seen Bella turn into a crackpot because of poor Occlumency technique, and I will not allow the same to happen to my godson. Not while I live and breathe."  
  
"Sirius, I appreciate your concern. But Voldemort—"  
  
"Is not my concern," Sirius raised his voice. "You say Occlumency will help him shield his thoughts from him. I say if Harry faces him, shielding his thoughts is the last thing he needs to think about."  
  
Harry felt a surge of pride and affection rise through him.  
  
Dumbledore exhaled, somehow looking even older than he was. "It's not that simple, Sirius. His scar... it connects him to Voldemort. I'm afraid Tom won't shy away from trying to influence him from afar."  
  
"I don't buy that," Sirius fought back. "No curse remnant, no matter how dark, can weave passages across powerful wards. As long as Harry lives inside the House of Black, he will be safe."  
  
"But Sirius—" Harry began, inwardly wanting to say something before things got out of hand.  
  
"Harry," Sirius held his shoulders. " _Please_. I've spent twelve years in prison, waiting to do right by you. By Merlin, I'm a _free man_ now _._ I have a house, I'm rich, and I have twelve years to make up for. Let me be there for you."  
  
"But Voldemort—"  
  
"Isn't _your_ job to take care of!" his godfather proclaimed. "He is a wizard with over seventy years of experience. It's the _adults'_ job to take care of him," he glared at Dumbledore, as if daring to say otherwise, "not a child's."  
  
His features grew softer as he looked back at his godson. "I came here today to ask the Headmaster permission to let you come live with me. The only question left is," his voice trembled, "do you want to?"  
  
Harry couldn't help it. He laughed.  
  
And damn, it felt good.

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	5. Act 1 - Disillusioned | Chapter 4 - Anomaly

**Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.**

The stone archway behind the Leaky Cauldron may have been the beginning of his venture into the magical world, but it was here at Ollivanders that his journey had truly begun. Harry could vividly remember the ever-growing amount of unsuitable wands on the spindly chair, while a gleeful Mr. Ollivander kept looking around for the best fit, muttering about tricky customers. He remembered feeling a sudden warmth as soon as he held his trusted holly wand for the first time. In its own way, the bright gold and red sparks had made magic seem more real than all of Diagon Alley and its amazing sights.

Now, his wand was dead. Gone, feeling no different from a regular stick of wood.

And he had come full circle. Right back to the place where it all began.

"Don't worry," he heard Sirius whisper, his godfather's fingers comfortably gripping his left shoulder. Harry would be lying if he said the gesture didn't make him feel at least a tad more reassured.

"But what if it goes wrong again?"

"You know what they say. Second time's the charm."

Harry rolled his eyes.

"Oh come on," his godfather tried, "people lose wands all the time. Every witch or wizard has lost their wand at some point, whether it's from a potion explosion or a spell gone wrong. Back in my day, hit-wizards always had a spare wand holstered to them, in case something went wrong."

"But that was because of damage, Sirius. How many of their wands just up and _died_?"

For once, Sirius looked tongue-tied.

"Look," his godfather tried again, "it was an unexplainable act of magic. A fluke. Exceptions don't prove the rules, Harry. They exist despite them."

It was a good argument, save for one single fact.

His life was one giant exception.

"Now come on, there's no point dawdling outside. Let's get your new wand."

Harry gave a passing glance to the single wand that lay on the purple cushion, in the dusty window they strode past. The sound of a tinkling bell immediately welcomed them. The towering columns of wand boxes reinforced the feeling of being in an old and dusty library-esque setting— though now that he noticed it, the boxes were of varying sizes, and the towering structures were asymmetrical at best and outright impossible at worst.

_I love magic._

"Good afternoon," a calm, serene voice surprised him. Harry turned towards his right, just in time to see a familiar old man walking to the counter. His eyes shone in the darkness of the shop, and for the first time, Harry noticed the flecks of silver in what were otherwise deep golden-brown orbs.

But that wasn't the strangest part.

There was a wild sheen to the flecks, a semi-metallic refraction of sorts. He would've called it a trick of the light, _if_ there was any light in that corner in the first place. The flecks synchronously faded for a moment, and then reappeared once more.

_Inhuman._

Harry blinked, resisting the urge to stagger back as he wondered how he'd come up with _that_ deduction of all things. Sure, something about the strange, chatty, nigh-omniscient wandmaker had always seemed more _magical_ than everything else. But never before— not even back then, during the Wand-Weighing Ceremony —had he ever entertained such a fantastical idea.

And yet, some strange instinct told him he wasn't completely off the mark.

He glanced at the window, towards the sign board.

**Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.**

"You're just seeing phantoms, Potter," he muttered to himself.

"I didn't think I'd be seeing you so soon again, Mr. Potter." The wandmaker moved in closer, his unblinking eyes never leaving his face, as if the man was carefully studying each of his facial features. "But I have heard the news. Felt the changes. A very sad thing it is, to have one's dear wand perish in front of their own eyes."

Harry stared at him blankly.

Ollivander stared back, his eyes unblinking.

_Why doesn't he blink?_

Sirius cleared his throat.

"Ah, Sirius Black. Oak, dragon heartstring, fourteen and a half inches. Reasonably springy."

"Right as always."

It was then that Harry decided to speak. "I— Professor Mcgonagall told me that wands don't die and such."

"But I didn't say _die,_ did I?" Ollivander answered. "I said perish. Often, the reason we have synonyms is to emphasize the subtle differences between two similar things."

Harry patiently waited for the man to continue.

"You are no longer the innocent, starry-eyed child who walked in here with Hagrid to meet your first wand. No, you have grown and changed. You have learned, loved, lost. You have known success and failure, regret and betrayal. And…" the man trailed, looming over him, mere inches away from his face, "you shall yet perish or master Death."

Harry gulped, and Ollivander took the moment to glance sharply towards Sirius. "I dare say another phoenix wand will not suit him any longer."

Something in him drowned a little. Harry loved his old wand. Holly wood with a phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Nice and supple. It was the twin to Voldemort's own, from what he'd been told. And most importantly, its feather had come from Fawkes, the phoenix who'd saved his life back in the Chamber of Secrets.

The fact that he'd no longer be using a wand made from his feathers left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Why is that?" Harry asked softly. Something told him he wouldn't like the answer.

"Like the cycle of destruction and rebirth, phoenixes are part of the world's order. They work best in the hands of people best suited for creation or destruction, sometimes both. People who become _heralds_ of change. And nothing represents change better than a phoenix."

"But Harry had a phoenix wand before this," Sirius objected.

"He did, and now it has perished. An anomaly in wandlore, as great and significant as seeing a phoenix cut off from the cycle of rebirth. But you see, anomalies are interesting in their own way. They bring out an obstruction to the path of eternal change. They alter the rules, sometimes even writing their own. And there is one creature that represents anomalies better than all others."

Ollivander's eyes met Harry's.

Inhuman met anomaly.

"A dragon," Harry whispered. Hagrid was a good teacher, but Harry himself had done extensive research on dragons in his spare time. Symbolism had always driven Hermione crazy due to its ambiguity— he remembered listening to her ranting about it in the library a while back.

"Looks like someone pays attention in Magical Creatures," Sirius teased.

Harry rolled his eyes.

"Dragons indeed," Ollivander confirmed. "Most people tend to paint dragons as an image of strength, but a dragon's true essence is domination. Mutation. Rule-breaker. Anomaly. Its versatility is what allows dragon heartstring wands to be so suitable for a majority of witches and wizards, but seeing someone represent its function as an _anomaly_... Rare would be an understatement."

And just like that, Harry felt a sensation of whiplash as he was reminded of his first visit to the quaint wand shop. To the exact moment when Ollivander had talked about the connection between his first wand and the _other_ wand, the one that had given him his famous lightning-shaped scar.

"How rare?" Sirius asked.

"Well," the wandmaker replied merrily, "I have only met two such instances before this. The first was Albus Dumbledore himself. Cherry and dragon heartstring. From a Ukranian Ironbelly, if we are being precise."

"And the other?" Harry nervously asked.

Ollivander's eyes flickered to Sirius's face for a moment. "Bellatrix Black."

Sirius opened his mouth, but no words managed to escape.

Harry silently wondered who this _Bellatrix_ person was, to elicit that kind of reaction from his godfather. He briefly remembered Sirius talking about his cousin _Bella_ back in Dumbledore's office and wondered if they were the same person. Given the way his godfather had become deathly still, he assumed he was on the right track.

 _Later_ , he told himself.

"Ahem!" Ollivander cleared his throat. "Shall we get started?"

* * *

"That went well."

Sirius shot him an incredulous look. "Well? _Well?_ What part of that went well for you?"

"The part where I got a new wand?"

Sirius looked like he'd just bitten into a bad egg. "Harry, it doesn't take a lot to coerce a wand to obey you after you've defeated its wielder. That doesn't make it a perfect fit."

Harry gave him his practiced fake smile. The nifty little thing allowed him to get past Hermione's questioning more than once in the past.

Apparently, it didn't fool Sirius one bit.

"Premier wandmaker my arse," he grumbled. "He couldn't even get you a proper wand."

Harry wanted to disagree. Ollivander had told him that _any_ wand would work for him, so long as the core was a dragon heartstring. There were very few elements and natures that dragon-types were incompatible with, which was why dragon heartstrings were the most common wand cores out there. Just pick the heartstring of the _right_ dragon, and you got yourself a compatible wand.

His own situation, as the wandmaker had told him, was a bit different. As unique as every dragon could be, all of them were perfect representations of anomalies, and as such, _any_ wand with a dragon heartstring core would work for Harry.

The man had selected ebony as the wand wood due to its representation of protection by power, something that resonated well with Harry's own history as the Boy-Who-Lived.

Twelve and a third inches.

Unbending.

It was a good wand. Just as good as his Holly and Phoenix wand, in fact. But it wasn't the perfect fit for him.

No wand, Ollivander had stressed, would ever be the perfect fit for him.

He pulled out his new wand from his robes. It felt new and different and had a wild thrum about it, as if promising him great things so long as he believed in it. And all it asked from him in return was to let go of his old wand.

"I have a wand, Sirius," Harry repeated stubbornly, "and that's all there's to it. What were you talking to Ollivander about?"

"Huh? What do you mean?" Sirius asked.

"Don't play coy," Harry retorted. "You sent me to Twilfitt and Tattings and stayed back with Ollivander. Now spill."

Sirius looked like a deer caught in the headlights. "Nothing important, really. Just asked him about what caused your wand to… y'know, die."

"Perish," Harry automatically corrected.

"Same thing," Sirius muttered under his breath.

"Anyway, what are we gonna do now?" Harry asked, reminding the older man that they were still in Diagon Alley. More specifically, sitting in the Leaky Cauldron.

Sipping butterbeer.

After that crazy talk with Professor Dumbledore, Harry had been allowed to pack his belongings— that Sirius had sent _somewhere_ —before transfiguring his school robes into something a bit more… traditional, allowing him to blend easily with the crowd. Then, the two of them had decided to go shopping.

He'd been shopping before, primarily buying groceries for Aunt Petunia and Vernon. After joining Hogwarts, he'd also gone to Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade with Ron and Hermione. But _this…_

This wasn't shopping. This was… he didn't even know what to call it.

For someone like him who had literally grown up living on scraps, it was a culture shock to see Sirius embodying the ideal of 'prodigal son' to a tee. Whatever caught Harry's attention, Sirius bought it. If Harry so much as looked at something twice, he bought it. Hell, there was stuff that he'd never need in his entire life, but just a random question out of morbid curiosity and it was now his.

If this was how Lucius Malfoy raised Draco, Harry could almost sympathize with how the fellow turned out. No wonder he thought his father could solve everything.

And now, it was his turn.

After a spending spree that lasted over four hours, Harry and Sirius left the alley, with Sirius's wallet feeling a lot lighter. Apparently the House of Black was an Ancient family, like the Malfoys— older, if he understood correctly —and with that came old money.

Enough to make his very significant vault look like pocket change.

"Well, you see," Sirius looked a little embarrassed, "I have a home. In London. A big townhouse actually."

"Where I'd be living?" Harry's heart skipped a beat.

"Yeah. Well, living and then some."

"What do you mean?" he asked. "I mean, I can clean and cook the meals, but you'll have to give me some time to get used to London if you want me doing groceries and—"

He paused, seeing the blank look on his godfather's face.

"What?"

"Clean and do meals?" Sirius all but exploded. "You're my godson, Harry, not a bloody elf!"

"Don't let Hermione hear you say that," he warned, instinctively looking around for his bushy-haired friend. He didn't understand why Sirius reacted like that. He'd worked for the Dursleys his entire life, and even made his own bed and kept things in order at Hogwarts. Thanks to the school elves, he never had to deal with cooking or laundry, but that was because his parents paid all his tuition in advance.

Or something like that. Hagrid hadn't exactly been clear about it, just that his name had been registered at Hogwarts after his birth.

But what about muggleborns like Hermione? Surely her parents would have to agree to send her to the school and such. And living arrangements for an entire year in a distant school in Scotland plus Hermione's personal expenses and _books_ wasn't exactly cheap.

Come to think of it, he'd never really bothered asking about such expenses.

Probably because Uncle Vernon never liked to discuss the subject of money during meals and the habit just stuck. Not that he had any meals with them in the first place. And the grumpy, bloated whale of a man constantly made it a point to remind him how much of a burden he was on their finances.

Some things, he just never discussed. Not even with his best friends.

"Hey Sirius," he found himself asking, "how much is Hogwarts's tuition?"

"Huh?

"How much is Hogwarts's tuition?"

"Thirty three galleons per year, so that makes it roughly around…"

"Two hundred and thirty galleons and change in total," Harry roughly calculated in his head. "That's a lot."

"Not really," Sirius replied, shrugging. "My father once showed me the amount of money Hogwarts spends on a single student, and the annual tuition doesn't cover even half of it."

"Then... why?" Harry asked. It made no sense for Hogwarts to spend more than they earned. Unless… An errant thought popped into his head.

"The Board of Governors pays for it?"

Sirius chuckled. "Nope."

"The Ministry of Magic?"

Sirius shook his head.

Harry arched an eyebrow. He was running out of options.

"The Wizengamot?"

"I was wondering when you'd say that," Sirius smiled. "But no. The Board of Governors make substantial donations, but it's actually _Hogwarts_ that provides for most of it."

Harry blinked. "Alright, you've lost me," he admitted.

"Not a fan of History of Magic, are we?"

"Have you seen Binns?"

The dog animagus chuckled. "Point taken. But seriously—"

Harry rolled his eyes at the obvious pun.

"—That subject gets loads more interesting in your OWL year and above."

"Sure," he replied, with all the sincerity that statement deserved.

Sirius grinned knowingly at him. "Tell me, Harry. Do you know who the most paid professor at Hogwarts is?"

"Umm… Professor Dumbledore?"

"Nope. Pomona Sprout. Double the Headmaster's salary, actually."

"Huh? Why?"

"Put that thing between your ears to use and tell me."

Harry did. And there was only one answer that seemed remotely plausible. "The greenhouses?"

His godfather beamed. "Exactly. Hogwarts boasts one of the largest greenhouse plantations in all of Magical Europe, not to mention it's also the largest supplier of mandragora, shrivel figs, and bubotuber. In fact, Hogwarts has a freeholding license in the ICW as a business enterprise."

"I'll be honest, this is all going over my head."

The Black scion laughed. "It means the ICW registers Hogwarts as a business."

"Not as a school?"

"Nope."

"But—"

"Have you ever wondered why you have _four_ Herbology sessions every week, Harry? That's more than Transfiguration and DADA, right?"

Harry opened his mouth but then quietly shut it.

"It's 'cause Pomona Sprout uses the students' aid to keep the greenhouses fully running. And it's not just that. Every single thing at Hogwarts— from the contract with the mermen in the Black Lake to the centaur herd in the forest —all of that exists for a reason, and it's not always just _magic_ and camaraderie."

"Okay, that all sounds very interesting, and I promise to look up 'camaraderie' in the dictionary later. But what's that got to do with less tuition?"

"Simple," Sirius smiled. "When you're a student, you work for Hogwarts as an apprentice. Standard contracts. Back in the early days, apprentices did all the housework for their masters. People like you and me, who have their tuition paid for by wealthy parents, aren't really _expected_ to do anything, which is why most purebloods drop Herbology right after OWLs. For muggleborns, it stays on as a compulsory subject with extra work."

Harry suddenly became very conscious of the money pouch in his pocket, the one that held a thousand galleons of prize money— his winnings from the Triwizard Tournament. He'd already known he was _loaded_. A single galleon had been enough to purchase the entire contents of the trolley cart back in his first year. In all his time in the Wizarding World, he'd come to spend roughly sixty galleons and change.

Compared to that, a thousand galleons was more money than he knew what to do with.

Then again, it wasn't like he really needed to take care of himself. Minister Fudge had paid for his stay at the Leaky Cauldron back in third year summer, and Hogwarts took care of his food and lodging each year.

"Some other time," Harry muttered under his breath, shaking his head. All this talk about finances was making his mind foggy. Why didn't Hogwarts ever teach anything about it, like a class or something? Maybe he'd ask Sirius later.

_Ask Sirius._

The very thought felt nice, in a strange way. Was this what it felt like to have a parent? To be able to go to someone and ask them when he didn't know something. To ask for food when he was hungry without ducking frying pains aimed at his head?

"—Harry."

His godfather's words jolted him out of his thoughts. "Uh, sorry, I was just—"

"Nonsense," Sirius waved it away. "Anyway, why are you wondering about all this _now_?"

"Uhm, well, I do have to pay you back and—"

The words died in his throat as Sirius gripped his shoulder.

Tightly.

"Harry," the man replied, his tone as serious as he'd ever seen, "I'm not Petunia Dursley, I'm your _godfather_. That means I stand in place of your parents to take care of you, to give you a home to call your own, to protect from all the harm that comes your way. If I hadn't been so stupid back then, you'd have grown up with me, as your mum and dad would've wanted."

His voice broke a little.

"But what's past is past, let's focus on the present. My house is your house, and you have as much right to it as I do. Never forget, you're Harry James Potter, heir of House Potter and son of House Black. More than that, if I have my way."

"What do you—"

"More on that later," Sirius glibly replied, finishing off the last of his butterbeer and getting up from his chair. "It's getting late. Let's get moving."

After his sentimental words, Harry couldn't find it in his heart to deny his godfather.

Softly, his lips twitched into a lopsided grin. "Okay."

* * *

The chamber may as well have belonged to a Spartan king. The furnishings were few and simple, but exquisitely crafted from nothing but the most exceptional materials. A wooden panel, stained with fine smoke and time, framed a fireplace, engraved with depictions of archaic rituals and customs. Several chairs of deep, polished red wood and rich, black leather sat around the fire, with a tall, wooden table between them, polished with the same gleaming finish. On the table was an ornately designed ceramic bottle of 1841 Odgen's Firewhiskey and several glasses.

Picture perfect.

"Do you think he'll like it?" Narcissa asked her husband.

Lucius gave her a tight-lipped smile. Things hadn't been going _great_ for the House of Malfoy since the night of the Third Task, a night that had woken up more wraiths of the past than Lucius was comfortable with. He had served as a Death Eater, and had paid his dues (and adequate kowtowing) to the Dark Lord at the height of the man's powers. But no one had been happier than Lucius himself when the events of Halloween 1981 had ended the Dark Lord's regime.

And now, he was back.

And the blood and carnage and mindless destruction would begin anew.

If it hadn't already _started._

Even now, he felt like puking every time he remembered that night.

Harry Potter dueling Lord Voldemort.

Child of Prophecy versus the Dark Lord.

Inexplicable, unexplainable, _powerful_ magic versus the almighty killing curse.

_And the gray field…_

Lucius trembled. He'd been unable to sleep soundly since witnessing that particular magic in effect. As a loyal Death Eater in service to the Dark Lord for years, Lucius had seen no shortage of atrocities and powerful, _twisted_ magic in action. And that was without counting his own family library and the malevolent curses and magical effects described within.

But nothing— _nothing_ —compared to what happened in the graveyard that night. It was strange and alien and utterly, utterly _wrong._ He'd never acknowledge it aloud, but for a split second, he had seen _fear_ in the Dark Lord's eyes. He'd heard the hesitation in his voice, felt the growing desperation in his actions.

The Dark Lord had been afraid of his demise.

At the hands of the same child who had vanquished him once before.

It made him wonder…

_Just what was Harry Potter?_

"Lucius?" Narcissa repeated. "What do you think?"

"Ostentatious as always," Lucius kissed her cheek, his lips lingering near her earlobe. Twenty years into their marriage, and yet Narcissa Malfoy née Black still drove him crazy. Then again, she was a _Black_ , and women from that family had an almost supernatural sensuality about them.

He felt her smile against his cheek.

"You realize this is an invitation for my cousin?"

His lips twitched. Sirius Black was as battle-hardened as one could get. It took a rare talent to be selected in Hit-Wizardry service right after the OWLs. Two years as an apprentice, then three more years on the field.

Rufus Scrimgeour's protégé. Kingsley Shacklebolt's commanding officer. If not for his sudden incarceration in 1981, the man would have been the sitting Head Auror by now, if not Head of the DMLE himself.

And now, he'd been exonerated with full honors, and had rightfully taken over as Heir Apparent of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. With Narcissa as his remaining cousin and with Lucius having married into the Black family, things were going to be somewhat… turbulent in the days to come.

Plus, public support and sympathy was currently on Black's side from the wrongful incarceration. Should anything happen to the man, fingers would immediately point towards him. Worse, if the Dark Lord ordered an assassination against the scion of Black, it would only annoy the traditionalist faction.

Any plans for a new-world regime of the resurrected Lord Voldemort would be in shambles before it even began. And the Dark Lord, of course, would take out any frustrations from such a blow on the Death Eaters.

On him.

"You're thinking about my cousin and the Dark Lord, aren't you?" Narcissa asked.

Lucius sighed. His wife had truly phenomenal instincts, a fact that showed in the sheer, ruthless efficacy with which the woman ran their business ventures. It was the one single trait that had him head-over-heels with her— her ability with investments was instrumental in allowing him the resources and free reign to play politics at the Wizengamot.

"I am," he admitted. "The Dark Lord has stationed himself at Nott's mansion. For now. Soon enough, he's going to make our home his new headquarters."

"And that frightens you?"

"It both pleases and frightens me," Lucius answered. "Having the Dark Lord's favor is both a boon and a bane. It establishes my reach in his New World Order, but at the same time, it makes movement restrictive. Makes _me_ vulnerable."

"Us," Narcissa corrected.

"You could always shelter with your cousin, Cissa. I know Sirius Black. Whatever his opinion of me and mine, he would never close the door on family."

"He could," she interjected, "considering said family never did anything to get him out."

"He had a trial," Lucius countered, "and he was found guilty of killing Peter Pettigrew and thirteen muggles. Whether he was in service to the Dark Lord or not is unrelated."

"You mean he killed too many _Death Eaters_ to be free," Narcissa coolly replied.

Lucius merely sighed. His wife was a staunch believer of Pureblood Supremacy, but she made no bones about her dislike of the Death Eater movement. After the fateful night in 1981, Narcissa had worked herself ragged in establishing her position among the elite circles of the Noble population.

"You do realize that Sirius Black comes in a two-for-one package?" Lucius warned. "That man's trust and affection for James Potter and his mudblood knew no bounds. You know Harry Potter defended him, and he will only do the same for his charge."

"And where's the harm in that?" Narcissa's eyes lit up. "Cousin Sirius is his godfather, which makes Harry Potter a Black in all but blood."

"Yes. An _heir_. Just like Draco."

"Wasn't that why you wanted him here, Lucius?" Narcissa challenged. "So that you'd have two shots at the prize? Harry Potter, precious Boy-who-Lived, or Draco Malfoy, your own scion and heir."

"That was the plan _then._ This is _now._ Harry Potter is Albus Dumbledore's poster boy."

"You're just jealous because he outsmarted you with that blasted elf."

Lucius stared at her.

Narcissa stared back.

He arched an eyebrow.

She arched her own.

All of a sudden, they both burst into laughter.

"That boy!" Lucius chortled, his eyes brimming with tears. "He really thought he was being clever there. Trying to free Dobby like that."

Narcissa's chuckles slowly tapered off, only to be replaced by a dubious look. "You know, you really should have thought better than to put that diary in the Weasley girl's basket."

"Come now dear, do you truly think so little of me?" Lucius asked softly. "Arthur Weasley is a muggle-lover and a fool, but that man is an _expert_ on cursed enchantments. He has single-handedly led the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office for more than two decades for a reason."

"And?"

Lucius scowled. "Weasley's department was going to raid our manor. I got rid of everything else save that… that _diary_ ," he hissed. "Even _Borgin_ flinched away from it, and that man hordes dark artefacts like Honeydukes does chocolate. How the diary went by unnoticed by a man like Weasley, I'll never understand."

Narcissa deftly poured some firewhiskey into a glass and handed it to him. "Have some. You're going to need it if you want to play ball with cousin Sirius today evening."

And just like that, Lucius was wide awake. "Today?"

"Oh yes," Narcissa innocently replied, smiling all the while. "I invited him to drinks tonight."

"And what did he say?"

"He accepted."

Lucius's eyes widened.

Narcissa had a small smile on her face. "He may be enjoying public sympathy, but Harry Potter isn't. And you know half the Wizengamot wants the boy on a silver platter, ready to accept his guilt. The House of Black might have been formidable, but House Malfoy holds the reins at the Wizengamot today. If he wants the boy to be safe, he better attend my little tea party."

Lucius saw a little _something_ in the woman's eyes, before it flickered out of existence. And then her eyes were back to a clear cerulean blue again.

"So," Narcissa Malfoy held the glass out once more, "care for a drink?"

 _She always did have marvelous instincts,_ Lucius told himself.

* * *

"Welcome to my neighborhood."

Sirius's exuberant declaration was answered by a blank stare from his godson, and a pair of crows that flew away cawing, obviously disturbed by his sudden and loud voice.

Harry looked around. Given the Dursley's obsession with cleaning and normalcy, he'd never actually been to any place that could be described as _cluttered._ Say what you will about Petunia Dursley, but the woman had been a cleaning freak and did her best to impart the same values to him. Of course, her method of instruction— a frying pan to the head —left a lot to be desired.

The neighborhood seemed to be stuck in a state of metamorphosis. Several buildings were undergoing renovation, while others stood half-finished. He could see dozens of sites with tarp, drywall and lumber all around. And in the middle of it all was a large box of grime and corroded rock, sticking out like a sore thumb. Knowing wizards, he had little doubt exactly _which_ of these buildings belonged to his godfather.

"That," he pointed a finger at the clusterfuck of smog, dust and grime in the center, "is your home?"

He'd phrased it as a neutral statement, but he hoped the older man would notice the incredulity in his tone.

"Yup. Number 12, Grimmauld Place."

"Oh, it's _grim_ and _old_ alright," Harry deadpanned.

"I know she's a little dusty," Sirius replied, his grin nostalgic, "but she's the one. Other than sixth year summer, which I spent at the Potters with your dad, this has been my home since I was little."

"That's not _dusty_ ," Harry scrunched his nose. "That's a big bag of diseases just waiting to explode. Have you seen this thing? How can—" he looked around at the other houses. "How has nobody done anything about it?"

Sirius chuckled. "That's because of the Mind Fog around it."

"The what now?"

"Mind Fog," Sirius repeated. "It's a ward, or actually a curse _on_ a ward. I'm not all that clear on the details. Point is, anyone but a _guest_ of this building will find it extremely difficult to remember anything about this place, even if they're standing right in front of it."

Harry tried to bend his mind around that little tidbit. "So it's kind of like a giant notice-me-not charm?"

"Sort of," his godfather laughed, "but not quite. A notice-me-not charm can be dispelled with a strong enough Finite, or if the caster is not paying attention or weakened. This? This is a curse, forever active as long as the wardstone, which is inside the house by the way, stays intact."

Harry blinked.

"Don't worry about the details," Sirius chortled, still staring at the building. "It's a bit of a wreck on the inside too, but between the three of us, we can get some house cleaning done and make it livable again."

Harry bobbed his head. Cleaning was one thing he had a _lot_ of experience with. Besides, at this point in life, getting to clean might be the one normal thing he'd do in a wizarding house—

"Wait, three of us?" he suddenly asked, alarmed.

"I invited Remus to live with us too."

Harry smiled at that. Not only was Professor Lupin his favorite DADA teacher so far, but he owed a lot to the older man for teaching him the Patronus Charm. Besides, any friend of Sirius was a friend of his.

Still, he had one question still buzzing around in his mind.

"Sirius," he asked, "I'm not a guest. So how can I see and remember this place?"

"That's right, you aren't a guest," Sirius grinned. "You're family. And family is always welcome."

In that moment, Harry felt his heart lurch just a little.


	6. Act 1 - Disillusioned | Chapter 5 - Subject 1031

The moment Harry Potter stepped into the ancestral house of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, he declared it to be a scourge of all things neat and tidy. The derelict building was sunk in pitch-black darkness, with dampness, rust, and a pervasive smell of decay adding to its grotesque ambiance. Soft hissing noises came out of the oddest corners, and decapitated _heads_ of house-elves served as decor and lamps for dim illumination. The entire place was at least four times as large on the inside than outside, its long, gloomy hallways lined with thick muslin carpets.

And _snakes._

Lots and lots of snakes.

Serpentine sculptures, engravings, and designs littered the home. On the candelabra, on the railings, on the doorknobs. Hell, even the hallways seemed to curve in an eerily snake-like manner.

Tom Riddle would've felt right at home.

"This… is where we're gonna live?" he asked Sirius carefully.

"Yup. After we're done cleaning it and stuff."

Harry swiveled his neck towards his godfather. "Cleaning it?"

Sirius nodded wistfully. "This house has done nothing but gather dust and house pests since my imprisonment. We used to have a house-elf, demented little thing." He whistled. "I think it died from being alone all this while."

"It died from being _alone_?"

"Why, yes," his godfather replied, looking a little too jovial for his taste. "You see, house-elves _need_ a job. They obsess over it. Those that aren't very attached to the family they serve would probably look elsewhere for work. But take away an elf's job and it'll go insane in a month. "

"What do you mean?"

"Well, a few things could potentially happen," Sirius answered. "They could just perish over time. Some go rogue, and others even attack their previous owners. One of my squib ancestors actually wrote a book on it."

Harry blinked at that. Twice.

"Have you read about the Brothers Grimm, by any chance?"

Nothing came to mind.

His godfather's gaunt face suddenly turned wistful. "My uncle Alphard read that to me when I was younger. The Brothers Grimm, my grand-uncles by blood, wrote about a creature called the brownie. Small, brown-nosed faery that went around in rags, helping people in exchange for food and honey and gruel, but would mercilessly attack if paid in human currency."

"Huh? That's weird," Harry commented.

"Not to them it isn't. For creatures like the fae, _favors_ are the currency. Trying to pay them in gold— or Merlin-forbid, paper notes —would be blasphemous."

"Is it the same for house-elves?"

"Well," Sirius picked his nose, "the little buggers definitely have Fae blood in 'em. If you look at French myths, there are references to creatures called the Farfadets, though they're commonly mistaken to be Wood Elves, no thanks to that Tolkien fellow."

Harry's mind blanked for a moment, as he realized just how little he truly knew about the magical world. For someone whose greatest pleasure had been feeling magic surge inside him, he had procrastinated a _lot_. Somewhere between taking classes and Ron and Quidditch and the shenanigans he'd always managed to get himself into, he had forgotten the truth of magic.

He had forgotten the sheer _wonder_.

He remembered feeling sad at having to bring in worse grades than Dudley in primary school, afraid that Vernon would take out his ire on him. And the mindset didn't change when he transferred to Hogwarts. Despite being there for years, he never truly internalized that it was magic he was studying now.

In his mind, it was _homework_.

Mundane. Dull. Uninteresting.

Just when and how had that happened?

"You know what? Maybe we'll try our luck at catching some bluebell faeries. Catch enough of those, and you can get yourself some good luck."

"Luck?" he echoed.

"Luck."

"...Right." Harry's expression probably showed just how much faith he had in the man's words. "And how exactly do you catch them?"

"With moonlight, of course," Sirius replied, as if it was everyday knowledge. "Back when we were in school, me and Prongs would collect and store moonlight whenever we got the chance. How do you think we became animagi as fifth years without fucking ourselves over?"

"Because you had luck?" Harry asked in disbelief.

"How do you not know this? Moths and flame, moonlight and bluebell faeries, brownies and honey. Don't muggles read about all this in their stories?"

Harry gave him a half-shrug. Fantasy stories weren't exactly encouraged in the Dursley household, thanks to his unique heritage. "Somehow," he replied bemusedly, "I didn't think living with you would be like signing up for summer school."

Sirius's ears pinked at that. Azkaban had turned him rather pale, but a whole year of being on the lam outside of Britain had helped with that.

"So…" Harry trailed off. "About the whole cleaning thing?"

"Oh, right," Sirius replied. "Remus went out to take care of some errands. He should be back in a couple of days. I thought cleaning would serve as an educational experience for you here."

Harry arched an eyebrow. This house— no, this _mansion_ —was at least ten times larger than the Dursley house. A single bedroom in this place was easily twice the size of the master bedrooms back at Privet Drive.

And there were thirteen of them.

"Sirius, cleaning this will take ages."

"Bah, don't be ridiculous. A little each day and we'll be done in a week."

Harry hummed noncommittally as he began rolling up his sleeves. A house this big, in a week? There was no way they'd be able to—

"What are you doing?"

At Sirius's protest, he stopped and looked back at him.

"...What?"

"Why are you folding your sleeves?"

"To clean. If I don't my sleeves will get dirty."

His godfather looked at him like he had grown two heads.

"...What?" he repeated.

"Harry," the man slowly asked, as if speaking to a dim-witted toddler. "How exactly do you think we're going to clean this place?"

"With mops? Brooms?"

Sirius smacked himself in the face, mumbling various obscenities under his breath.

"What?"

"Harry, Harry, Harry," the man sighed. "No, I should've been clearer. By cleaning, I meant using your _wand_."

Now, it was Harry's turn to look at his godfather oddly.

"...What?"

It was funny how their positions had changed so quickly.

"Student," he pointed towards himself. "Summer."

"And?"

Really, was it so hard to understand? The Improper Use of Magic Office had made itself very clear the last time he'd suffered from Dobby's _care_. For some reason, he'd always pictured Mafalda Hopkirk— the one in charge of that office —to be some kind of large, cartoon tomcat, waiting outside the mousehole for the little mouse to stick its nose out so she could smash it flat with one big paw.

He'd know. He'd been that mouse once.

"I use magic, I get expelled."

"Nonsense," his godfather snorted. "This is the House of Black. You can fight a literal war here and the Ministry wouldn't know a damn thing."

Surprisingly, that felt better. Harry was reminded of that cartoon cat show Dudley used to watch on television. The cat always ended up getting the short end of the stick when chasing after the mouse. Maybe the Ministry would too.

It took another moment for Sirius's words to actually sink in.

"Sirius," Harry replied with trepidation. "Does… does that mean I get to do magic while not at Hogwarts?"

The man looked at him like he was terminally stupid. "Harry, every person living in a magical community can use magic at any time of the year. As long as they don't perform it in front of a muggle, it's completely allowed."

That made sense.

Dobby's appearance or disappearance hadn't triggered any alarms. It was the _hover_ charm, cast in the presence of the muggles that came to visit back then, that had registered with the Office and got him reprimanded.

…Wait.

"That can't be true," Harry wheezed at Sirius. "I spent an entire month with the Weasleys back in my second year. Mrs. Weasley didn't allow us to use any magic."

"Molly Weasley is an overprotective mother-hen, even by wizarding standards," Sirius jabbed. "Besides, Ottery St. Catchpole is a muggle-ish settlement. Having seven rowdy children to look after probably drove her around the bend and made her paranoid."

The more he thought about it all, the more it made sense. He'd seen Hagrid perform multiple spells in front of his relatives. Hell, he'd seen the Weasleys visit him in a _flying car_ to Privet Drive, right in front of his aunt and uncle.

And those instances hadn't registered.

At all.

"So I can use magic this summer?"

"Yes."

"Freely?"

Sirius sighed. "Yes."

"With my wand? Without getting in trouble?"

"At the risk of sounding repetitive, yes."

Harry didn't wait a _second_ longer. His wand came out with a sudden _whoosh,_ jetting out of the brand new holster he'd worn up his right sleeve— Ollivander had told him to constantly practice drawing it out. Between two wizards, a faster draw could mean the difference between winning and losing in a duel.

Sirius barked a laugh. "Hold your horses, there'll be a lot of wand-waving and spellcasting this summer. I'm fairly certain the upper floors have several boggarts and pixies hiding in the closets. With how long the house had been in this condition, there's probably loads of other magical pests taking shelter in here, too. Remus thinks cleaning the house will be a good test to see what you remember from his classes."

"Everything," Harry confidently replied. He'd gone over everything he'd learned thus far at Hogwarts to prepare for the Triwizard Tournament. And then twice over after learning Hagrid was throwing in his favorite creatures for the Third Task.

Frankly, he was surprised there were no dragons waiting for him in that maze.

Then again, he'd already faced dragons in the First Task. And Hagrid knew about enough deadly creatures to ensure some diversity.

Speaking of spellcasting…

"Sirius?"

"Yeah?"

"About that Occlumency thing. Snape also told me that Professor Dumbledore wants me to learn advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"From who?"

"From Snape."

Sirius's face became pinched, like he suddenly bit into an unbearably sour lemon.

"...Is that a problem?" Harry ventured.

"I'm trying to weigh the pros and cons of that offer, Harry. Snivellus was never the most skilled spellcaster, though he sure had several _interesting_ spells in his repertoire. Invented half the spells himself, actually."

That made him raise his eyebrows. Snape? Invent spells?

His godfather must have read his confused expression. "Sounds unbelievable right?" He let out a melancholic grin. "Me, your father, Remus, and the _rat_ ," his lips curled in distaste, "we sorta had a feud against Snape, Mulciber, and Avery. Kind of like the one you have with the Malfoy boy."

Harry hummed at that as he twisted his wrist a little, launching the wand back out of its holster. With razor-sharp reflexes from years of playing as Gryffindor seeker, Harry easily wrapped his fingers around the slim wooden frame before it could slip out of reach.

Sirius rolled his eyes at the display. Bringing his own wand out, he summoned two butterbeer cans that came zooming in from somewhere. Harry deftly caught one with his other hand.

"Good catch!" the man praised. "Just like your dad."

Harry flushed, the complement somehow seeming odd to his ears. All his time at Hogwarts, he'd heard the same line over and over from Snape, usually in an insulting context. The description had served to make a mockery out of himself, point out his incompetence, and his penchant for delinquency. Every time Snape had uttered those words, he had felt anger surge within him.

And now, those very same words made him grin.

The fact that Sirius had exchanged the formal 'father' for an informal 'dad' helped too.

"So, Snape," Sirius replied, a little awkwardly. "The offer has its merits, but I'd rather train you myself. I was a senior Hit-Wizard before I was sent to Azkaban. I think I've got a few things under my belt worth teaching."

Harry rolled his eyes. He distinctly remembered Madam Bones mentioning how Sirius Black was perfectly capable of killing _thirteen_ people with a single curse. Funnily enough, his godfather's own competency had acted against him during the accusation.

"Plus we're in _my_ House now. Literally and figuratively. Dark Arts are kind of the one thing this family can boast of. Well, that and psionics— more commonly known as the mind arts. It's a bit of a misnomer, since not everything in psionics has to do with the _mind_ , per se—"

Harry coughed.

"Uh, sorry," Sirius looked embarrassed, "I got a bit carried away."

"You know, you kind of sound like Hermione."

Sirius sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. "I blame Lily. She made me sit down and mug for an entire month during my NEWTs. She and James took notes for me while I was away gallivanting as a Hit-Wizard." He smiled fondly. "I'd have flunked my exams otherwise."

For some reason, Harry was certain the man was exaggerating.

"But anyways," Sirius clapped, "enough reminiscing about the past. Let's talk about the future. I can't wait for us to leave for the Bahamas!"

"What?!" Harry asked incredulously. "What am I going to do in the Bahamas?"

"Have fun, what else?" Sirius asked, looking at him with a mixture of pity and incredulity. "You, my godson have practically been walking on eggshells your whole life. You need to learn how to strut."

Right. And once he did that, he could buy himself a large green bowler hat and become Cornelius Fudge.

"Once we're there, I have two tickets for _the best_ Veela massage parlors, plus a nice cabin that I booked. Two rooms. And I'd advise you not to bring your girlfriend along. Wink wink."

"Did you seriously just say 'wink wink'? And I don't have a girlfriend!"

"Oh," Sirius looked a little dumbfounded. "Well, what about Hermione?"

"She's a friend," Harry immediately went on the defensive. "That's all there is."

"Well, all the better I suppose," he mused in a matter-of-fact tone. "Hermione seems pretty straight-laced. She'd have probably thrown a tantrum if you were dating and still went to a Veela parlor."

"She's _not_ ," Harry emphasized, "my girlfriend."

"Isn't that awesome? You're single and ready to mingle. Now enough chit-chat. Let's find you a room here, there's got to be someplace that's not covered in grime."

Harry just stared as Sirius strode ahead, humming a Weird Sisters tune to himself as he climbed the stairs.

Slowly, he sighed. "When in Rome..." he muttered, before quickly running after his godfather.

* * *

Ron wasn't the brightest of the bunch. Nor was he the strongest, or most adventurous, or most inventive. He wasn't a born bureaucrat like Percy, or doggedly determined like Ginny. If anything, he'd taken after his father, Arthur, and like him, he understood that he wasn't smart.

The thing was, when you weren't smart, you learned to pay attention. As he himself did. And from his limited amounts of knowledge, insight, and experience, Ron Weasley knew two things for certain.

First, no matter what anyone else said, Harry Potter was not a dark wizard.

And second, Harry Potter was _not_ Albus Dumbledore.

The two statements weren't exactly unconnected either— they simply combined to form a single thought. One that was enough to tell him that the rumors about Harry killing fourteen people was utter tripe.

Ron knew the kind of person his best mate was. A bit too well, to be honest. Harry was humble, easy-going, and regardless of Ron's own accusations against him, he didn't actually go tooting his own horn all the time. The truth was, Harry Potter cared for the few friends he had, and could never stand seeing someone else in trouble without jumping in to save them, no matter what.

Like the Dark Lord, Harry was a parselmouth. Ron remembered shivering alone in the middle of the night, thinking back to the supernaturally spooky tone in which his friend _hissed_ to talk to those snakes. And like the fake Moody that had taught them, Harry was bloody brilliant at casting curses and hexes. There was this _madness_ in his eyes whenever he got excited. Say what you would, but the boy of fourteen already had several deaths to his name before the Triwizard fiasco even started.

Quirinus Quirrell.

The memory of Tom Riddle.

Slytherin's Basilisk.

Not to mention the cool, cold-hearted way in which he'd sentenced Scabb— _Pettigrew_ , to be sent to Azkaban for Sirius Black's crimes. Ron had a sneaking suspicion that if Harry _actually_ decided to go Dark, the wizarding world would be in some real trouble.

But no. Harry wasn't a dark wizard. Nor was he Albus Dumbledore.

Which was why it baffled him that the newspapers painted him one way or the other, sometimes both at once.

Ever since the night of the Third Task, things had gone barmy. Dumbledore had appeared out of nowhere, carrying an unconscious Harry Potter in his arms. Beside him, a large, blackened log of wood— its sides slowly being chipped away —had appeared just as suddenly. It took him, and the rest of the crowd, several moments to realize that it wasn't actually charred wood.

It was a pile of _bodies_.

Dead bodies.

Dead, decaying, rotten-to-the-husk-and-falling-apart— those kinds of bodies.

Ron had immediately thrown up at the macabre sight.

"Ron! Don't just keep staring at the Daily Prophet like that. People'll think you've gone mental," Ginny chastised from the other side of the table.

_Wha—_

It took a while for him to realize he'd randomly paused during one of his favorite activities. Lunch.

"Ron."

"What?" he mumbled, stabbing his fork into a cubed potato with more force than necessary.

"You're not being yourself."

He eyed her as she popped a green Bertie-Botts bean into her mouth. An annoyed part of him hoped it was booger-flavored.

"'M fine," he waved off, trying to talk and chew at the same time. "Just thinking 'bout 'Arry!"

"Great," Ginny groaned. "Do you have to sound like that French tart?"

Ron blinked. "Who?"

"Fleur Delacour. Little miss _perfect_ from Beauxbatons. Remember her?"

As if someone could forget a bird like her. He'd even gotten a kiss— on the cheek, though that was still more than he'd hoped for —from her. Even though he really had nothing to do with saving her little sister from the lake.

Ron's hand moved on its own accord, rubbing his right cheek as he ignored the way his sister rolled her eyes and muttered something uncouth under her breath.

"What about her?"

"Nothing."

He eyed Ginny again, as she continued to serve herself food from the veritable buffet in front of them. Ginny was, in Ron's eyes, one of those strange things in life best left unexplained. By Merlin, the girl could _eat_ , but she somehow still remained as skinny and athletic as ever.

_Must be all that Quidditch practice._

And of course, thinking of Quidditch made him think about his best mate again. The journey home on the Hogwarts Express felt weird this year. For one, Harry hadn't been there. On top of that, half the Slytherins chose to Floo back home from Hogsmeade instead of taking the Express.

Hell, even Malfoy had been absent.

And wasn't that alarming?

An entire journey on the Hogwarts Express without Malfoy and his goons strutting down the aisle, trying to show them their place. It was practically a perversion of the natural order.

And yet, that was exactly what had happened.

Like he said, things became _barmy._

Ronald Weasley wasn't smart, but he did know how to listen. And listen he did. Just the previous night, he'd overheard his parents talking about the return of You-Know-Who. Usually, it was him, Harry, and Hermione who would be in the midst of these kinds of things, but Harry had been comatose since the night of the Third Task. For all he knew, his best mate could still be in Hogwarts.

He doubted the Headmaster would be addled enough to send a comatose boy back to his horrible muggle relatives. What would he say? 'Here's your nephew, all fit and fine! He's comatose now, but I'm sure he'll wake up in a few days. Care for a lemon drop?'

Ron sniggered at the thought.

"Weirdo," he heard Ginny mutter from the other side of the dining table.

"Bugger off!"

Ron watched his sister as she made a weird, mocking face and stood up to leave, leaving him alone to his musings. It had already been two weeks since he'd seen or heard from Harry. He hoped everything was alright.

"What the hell happened to you, mate?" he whispered to the now-empty room. "What the hell happened to you?"

* * *

Gerald Croaker stared in stony silence as the Unspeakables before him continued their ongoing discussion— the nature of the monochromatic barrier that had manifested in a certain graveyard on the night of the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament. Once the Chief Warlock had reported it and provided the necessary memories of the incident, it had caused an uproar throughout his department.

 _Really,_ he thought ruefully. _You'd think they would focus on the finer details first._

Gerald was, at least in his official capacity, the _speaker_ of the Unspeakables. Whenever his secret group was required to release information upon public or ministerial demand, it would happen through his office. For everyone else, the Department of Mysteries was an autonomous wing of the British Ministry of Magic that employed researchers to investigate, study, and formulate the nature of Magic itself. But, as was the nature of all things obscure, countless rumors were abound as to what it was they got up to behind closed doors. Some claimed this wing had its own version of the Muggle Secret Service, while others went so far as to accuse them of being a community of ageless vampires hiding in plain sight and conducting extensive experiments on dangerous and catastrophic items.

That one was probably his personal favorite.

 _So many assume,_ Gerald mused to himself. _So few know._

The Department first came to be when Merlin Emrys had founded a small group of trustworthy wizards— called the Arcana Cabana —to find the flaws and counters to Morgana Le Fae's witchcraft. After the death of Arthur, Merlin brought the heads of the existing magical clans together to form a statutory body, one that would prevent infighting and protect the world from the abuses of magic. The High Council, the Room of Thrones, the Watchtower, and now the Wizengamot— the organization went by several names over the centuries, but its main function never wavered.

To keep the sanctity of Magic intact and ensure the survival of the Arcana Cabana, who in turn gained a newer, far more significant function— one that had been Merlin's own goal for centuries.

To keep the Gates of Annwn from falling into the wrong hands.

The _Gates_ , if they could crudely be called as such, referred to a thousand-ton stone archway, constructed out of a basalt-mithril alloy found atop a small hillock near the original Sea of Meredor, standing right before the rock from which King Arthur had first drawn Excalibur. And in the middle of the archway floated a quasi-plasmic, ethereal substance.

Almost like a veil.

 _That's our purpose,_ Gerald thought to himself sardonically. _To protect something that's done nothing in the past several centuries._

Despite the detailed investigations and studies done on the artefact, nothing of value was yielded. Advanced magical technology could find nothing. Not that there was nothing special about it— instead, it was as if the Veil itself was, in fact, _nothing_.

As far as their scans showed, the Veil didn't exist.

And yet, it could be touched. Seen. Felt _._

Even tasted.

But magically? It didn't exist. Every spell cast at it just went straight through to the other side, as if traveling through nothing but air. A particularly hot-headed Unspeakable named Eloise Mintumble had even thrown powerful bludgeoning spells at it, aiming to damage the archway, to no effect. Non-magical methods didn't work either, since even the sharpest diamond knife couldn't chip away at its surface.

Finally, sometime in 1538, Margaret Dippet— the then-Head of the Arcana Cabana —called all ongoing investigations into the Veil to a complete and abrupt end. Under Minister Rowle's administration, the group was merged into the British Ministry of Magic and renamed the Department of Mysteries. The Veil was left in an empty chamber all to itself, while researchers focused on the development and research into the other mysteries of magic.

And what was more mysterious than the riddle that was the Boy-Who-Lived?

Harry James Potter— Subject 1031 by the books —was possibly the most interesting topic of discussion down there in Level Nine. The subject of an Active Prophecy, with a colorful history of unexplainable magical events and abilities. And now, there was _this_.

Gerald's gaze fell upon the file sitting inconspicuously atop his desk. More specifically, its title.

The Monochrome Barrier.

An ostentatious name, certainly, but no less intriguing than the Veil itself. From all the evidence gathered, it was clear that everything this so-called monochrome touched had every bit of magic unmade. The people themselves didn't just die, they were unmade. Their clothes were bereft of any enchantment. Their wands were dead. Their bodies had rotted to the point of falling apart— any more and they'd be indistinguishable from pixie dust.

Whatever had cursed them hadn't just brought upon them a physical death.

It was magical in nature.

And it had something to do with one Harry James Potter.

Ever since the incident, the Committee had been a complete mess. Subject 1031 was a high-profile individual in more ways than one. He was a scion of an Ancient House, not to mention the fame that came with being the Boy-Who-Lived. However, ancient body of researchers or not, a mob would pull every stone of this building apart if they tried to snatch the boy away and place him under their custody for so-called 'experimentation'.

And so, he was stuck here. Listening to his colleagues bicker among themselves with growing apprehension.

"Subject 1031 was also exposed to chronomancy back in 1994," TIME replied. "Having multiple three-dimensional existences of a Prophecy subject at once could have had unseen impacts upon the time stream."

Croaker suppressed a sigh. TIME— the Head of the Time Division— was the most paranoid of the lot, as well as the most morally flexible one.

It had been TIME who'd suggested using a Hogwarts student, albeit one with a natural eidetic memory, as a guinea pig for the Time Division's latest experimental product— an accumulation of sand grains supercharged with chronomantic energies, fancily referred to as the Time Turner. TIME and his division had studied the aftereffects of constant ripples in the timestream for an entire year, while making sure to avoid any temporal cascades.

Several such measures had involved _taking care of_ temporal displacements of her person and ensuring a complete lack of public attention from their ongoing experiment. The Prophet would have a field day if they found even a crumb of what they'd gotten up to.

Gerald had happily noted down the student's name— Hermione Jean Granger, possibly descended from a squib offshoot of the Dagworth-Grangers —and listed her as a potential recruit upon completion of her NEWTs. If nothing else, the girl would make a fine researcher.

"There is a second option here." Interestingly, it was MIND who suggested it. "I propose adding Subject 1031 to the Archive."

Gerald arched an eyebrow.

The Archive, in layman's terms, was a collection of anything or anyone deemed ' _too risky to lose'_ by the DoM. Unlike the Ministry of Magic's standard Conscription List consisting of the population and their respective magical traits, the Archive was far more… limited in what it contained.

Plus it was a heavily guarded secret. Even the Minister of Magic himself was unaware of its existence.

The Archive included individuals that were either born with or developed a skill or ability that was, magically speaking, almost impossible to recreate. It included things that defied existing magical conventions, traits that couldn't be passed down through blood, and magics that shouldn't even exist by current standards. People associated with any or all three were brought in, evaluated, and— depending on the situation —either offered a career in the DoM, or issued a lifestyle that ensured their complete safety, even at the cost of losing their fundamental rights. In the case that anyone proved too… problematic, the DoM was not above incarcerating said individual to ensure their safety.

All in all, individuals who qualified for the Archive were incredibly rare in number. In fact, there had only been two additions to the Archive in the last century.

Gellert Grindelwald and Nymphadora Tonks.

One was a deranged Dark Lord whose reign shook all of Europe, and the other was a metamorphmagus— the only one of her kind in the last four hundred years.

"Have you gone completely around the bend?" PROPHECY exploded. PROPHECY, Gerald mused from his corner, often tended to react in an overbearing fashion. The Head of the Prophecy Division could be heard growling underneath his (her?) hood. He knew for a fact that TIME was a man in his late fifties, but PROPHECY's gender was unknown.

Even to him.

"Tinkering with a subject of an Active Prophecy is against our Accords due to the unseen repercussions. If anything, Subject 1031 should be engineered into further engagements with the Dark Lord. Perhaps that will trigger the anomalous event again?"

It was a good proposal. One with several holes, but all in all not without a point.

"The situation isn't optimal for that," MIND rebutted bleakly. "At the very least, we need to keep an official eye on Subject 1031 to acquire more information about the nature of his magic before any further debate upon his future status."

"I will _not_ authorize sending another gifted mind to Hogwarts," Gerald interjected, nipping the idea in the bud. "One Cuthbert Binns was enough of a lesson for me, thank you very much."

"It's not your choice to make, Croaker," MIND kindly reminded him of his official position.

The arse.

"It _is_ my choice when I have to deal with the political ramifications," Gerald spoke up in his usual baritone voice. "I am, after all, the public face of the Unspeakables. Unlike you, I don't have the benefit of hiding beneath a hood."

MIND glowered at him, though it was difficult to really tell, what with the hood obscuring everything. Body language stopped being relevant the moment one walked past the entrance door to Level Nine.

Gerald sent the file on his table skidding across the polished oak surface. "A collective analysis of Subject 1031 and his immediate genealogy. Based on blood tests from samples acquired when he was a baby, there seems to be no sign of nobility. No Family Magic. Thanks to Albus Dumbledore, we've managed to acquire some blood samples of Subject 1031 very recently to test for the origin of the Parseltongue trait."

"Let me guess," PROPHECY groaned. "Another squib from the Gaunt lineage?"

Gerald suppressed a snigger. The Gaunt line, no thanks to their constant inbreeding, had squib-births almost every generation. According to the Department of Genealogy, there were currently 217 individuals who could trace their origin back to the Gaunts. The most infamous among them was one Tom Marvolo Riddle, who had self-styled himself as Lord Voldemort.

"Surprisingly, no," Gerald answered. "But he does indeed get it from his mother's side."

He was met with patient stares, prompting him to clarify further.

"Lily J. Evans, born on January 30, 1960, was the daughter of Harold Evans and Rose Evans née Fairweather. Through Harold Evans and three more generations of Evans before him, Subject 1031 can trace his lineage to Aureolus Von Hohenheim, the great-grandson of Phillipus Von Hohenheim—"

Gerald paused for a moment, observing PROPHECY for any sudden movements.

"—famously known as Paracelsus."

"Paracelsus?" MIND blankly repeated.

"The one and only. The very first Chief of the Department of Mysteries, appointed by Minister Rowle himself as soon as the organization was created. And the first known speaker of Parseltongue outside the Gaunt family."

"Subject 1031 is a descendant of Paracelsus the Faker?" PROPHECY asked exuberantly.

"Can we not call him that?" Gerald replied, rubbing the middle of his forehead. Paracelsus, much to everyone's shock back in the sixteenth century, had turned out to be a parselmouth— a trait that the Gaunt family claimed to be part of its Family Magic. Paracelsus's work as a Speaker led to significant breakthroughs in healing magic thanks to the subtle magical effects of Parseltongue. He then went on to single-handedly prove that the magical language was a trait tied to the Gaunt family because of constant inbreeding, but a trait nonetheless.

An event that led the then-Lord Corvinus Gaunt to declare a blood feud against the Hohenheim family.

Gerald had been both amused and bemused at how the Daily Prophet had painted Potter to be an up-and-coming dark wizard by connecting his Parseltongue abilities with the likes of Lord Voldemort and Salazar Slytherin. There were even rampant theories about how the Boy-Who-Lived had stolen the Dark Lord's powers on Hallow's Eve 1981, or even better, assimilated the latter's memories to become his batter and vanquish him. Some even suggested the boy was the Dark Lord reborn into the form of a babe.

_Wonder what they'd say to this._

"But why was this not confirmed back in 1981?" TIME asked.

"Because the Unspeakables were carried away with trying to figure out the secret behind the Boy-Who-Lived's _immunity_ against the Killing curse," Gerald retorted. "My team was only able to get this new information from recent acquisitions."

The declaration brought about a spell of silence.

"Well," BRAIN muttered, "at least now we know why Subject 1031 is a parselmouth."

"I find it wildly coincidental that Subject 1031 shows the lineage and traits of a known parselmouth when there are no records of his immediate ancestors with similar abilities," LOVE put forward.

Gerald rolled his eyes. LOVE once spearheaded an independent research group with the theory that Lily Potter née Evans might've had something to do with Harry Potter's survival and Lord Voldemort's destruction. Someone among the crowd had muttered something about rituals in the Ministry atrium.

That day had been a headache and a half.

Still, he had an answer for her. As much as he loved to play devil's advocate, this one was a dead giveaway.

"Magic never spills all her secrets in a single generation. Subject 1031's maternal ancestry is muggle in origin. Lily Evans has had muggle in her genealogy for over six generations."

"I still call it awfully convenient," LOVE stubbornly posed.

"Like the fact that said child is also a subject of an Active Prophecy? Against a Dark Lord that, poetically enough, is _also_ a parselmouth?" PROPHECY erupted.

"All the more reason to add Subject 1031 to the Archive," MIND suggested once more.

Gerald was about to snap when another voice spoke up, interrupting the tirade that was about to spill out from his lips.

"I propose a middle ground," THOUGHT chimed in. "We have no information as to what or why Subject 1031 was able to create the monochrome barrier. What we _do_ know is that Potter has been known to perform feats of magic that follow similar patterns— a patronus that kills dementors, hands that burn a possessed individual. I believe that analysis and further study of these smaller facts might reveal substantial data about the origins of the Monochrome. I second MIND's suggestion— we tail Subject 1031 closely to get a better picture of his capabilities. We can then hold a second Committee meeting to make a decision at a later date."

"And who," Gerald ground out, "do you propose to be his tail?"

"The sole Archived under our employment." Surprisingly, it was LOVE who spoke up. "I'm talking about, of course, Nymphadora Tonks."

And chaos erupted.

**Author's Note:**

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> ~The BlackStaff and NightMarE~


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